


The Decisions that Define Us

by Pixiestick_cc



Series: If You're Lonely Press Play Universe [3]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixiestick_cc/pseuds/Pixiestick_cc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something that had been an exasperating hobby of hers had now transitioned into a dangerous pastime. She was hurt, and Wirt had no idea how to fix it. (IYLPP Universe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimpernickel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimpernickel/gifts).



Something was off. Wirt could see it in the slight tremor of her hands and the way she absently kept touching her shoulders; all minor things to the untrained eye, but Wirt had known Beatrice for almost three years now, and had spent the last two and half memorizing all the little mannerisms that made her unique. The normal Beatrice liked to chew her bottom lip when things grew tense. She would play with a curl when her hands became idle. Her nose would scrunch up if she was annoyed. But the shaking and the shoulder touching were unusual and after a day spent going over last minute details for their wedding, Wirt felt compelled to say something. “Is this too much stress for you? Should we postpone the wedding?”

There were actually two weddings to plan for; one that Saturday in her world and one the following weekend in his. Both sets of parents had demanded a ceremony and today had been set aside to go over wedding number two. Once they were married in Beatrice’s world, they didn’t plan to return until the day before their second wedding in his, so everything had to be dealt with now. It was a lot to go over and Wirt wondered if the stress of putting together two weddings had started to take its toll on Beatrice. “Stop worrying. I’m fine,” she replied, sounding like she wanted to be annoyed, but couldn’t make the effort, and then with trembling hands passed along their ceremony programs to Wirt. “Do we really need these? There isn’t going to be a lot of people at your parents’ wedding.”

They were sitting on his twin bed and Beatrice leaned back to lay down on her side. Wirt mimicked her movements, almost like they were tethered together, and tossing the programs aside, he snuggled up against her back in the limited space available. “It’s _our_ wedding, not theirs,” Wirt reminded her.

“It might as well be. I don’t know why we have to have two,” Beatrice complained, closing her eyelids.

“You know why. They’re the ones losing something and it’s only fair we let my mom celebrate a wedding on this side too. And what about Greg? We can’t leave him out. He’d be crushed.” Wirt began to stroke her hair.

“No, I suppose not,” she sighed and then added, “I’m just glad he grew out of that phase where he wanted to be the flower girl. Honestly, it feels like he’s been planning our wedding since that night I was trapped in your room with a twisted ankle.”

“Ever the matchmaker,” Wirt chuckled in agreement and then continued his persuasion of why a second wedding was necessary. “Don’t forget all our friends will be there and Sara’s your maid of honor ... well, she’s your _only_ bridesmaids, but still, you don’t want to disappoint her, right? Anyway, it will be good to see everyone one last time.”

Beatrice scoffed. “One last time? You act like we’re dying or something.”

“No, it’s the opposite actually. For the first time I’ll really be living, because we’ll be bonded together in the sanctity of marriage,” Wirt replied using a melodramatic tone, hoping to rile up her tease reflex, but Beatrice’s only response was a weak harumph. “Is that the best you can do? No clever comeback? I was totally playing into your hands with that lame line.” Wirt reached through her red curls and began to prod her back, hoping to solicit a reaction which he did eventually get; only it wasn’t the one he’d expected. Beatrice hissed in pain and jerked away with such force that it caused her to tumble onto the floor. “Beatrice?!” Wirt said her name in shock and jumped down from the bed.

“I’m fine,” she whined from her position lying flat on her stomach, her left cheek pressed against the carpet as she strained to look at him.

Rolling his eyes, Wirt laid down next to her so that they were staring face to face. “Don’t you know by now that that doesn’t work on me? _I’m fine_ is essentially code for _I’m not fine_.”

Beatrice’s face contorted in pain as she tried to turn away from him, but gave up and flopped back down on the ground. “Okay. I’m not fine,” she admitted breathlessly, as if the little bit of effort to move had drained all her energy.

“Did you hurt your back?” Wirt inched closer to Beatrice and propped his head up with a hand.

“Sort of well, it’s not really important.” She tried to move again, and Wirt saw beads of sweat form on her forehead.

“Yeah uh, you’re obviously hurt to the point where you can’t move, so it _is_ important. That is unless you were intending for me to carry you down the aisle,” Wirt snorted, trying to play off his frustration with her reluctance to answer, as sarcasm. He didn’t want the situation to devolve into a fight.

“Like your weak arms could do that. You’d drop me before even reaching the altar,” Beatrice retorted and Wirt grinned.

“See there, that's the Beatrice I know and love. Glad you’re still well enough to insult me. So, are you also well enough to tell me how you hurt your back? Were you trying to fly?”

He was hoping for her to give as good as she got which in turn would lead to the playful back and forth that was the distinguishing mark of their relationship. If he said the right words to amuse her enough, then Wirt could possibly ease her into telling him what had happened. But when Beatrice didn’t respond to his lighthearted jab at her former bluebird form, Wirt could barely contain the groan that wanted to break free from his mouth. He could tell it was going to be one of her more headstrong moments and those were always better treated with soft words than an argument. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me how it happened,” he offered. “Just tell me how I can help you? What do you need me to do?”

Beatrice had been her usual self that afternoon when she came over the wall. Nothing was out of the ordinary with her. It wasn’t until recently that her demeanor had started to slowly shift into irritability, followed by the trembling hands. So, it couldn't be something as easily diagnosed as a thrown out back. Whatever had changed in Beatrice, had been gradual.

But she wasn’t about to be helpful with his deductions and feeling stymied, Wirt sat up. “Look, I’m really trying with you, but how are we going to make it as a married couple if you can’t even tell me how to help you when you’re hurting,” he snapped, and Wirt saw her eyes flick over to him in surprise. He wasn’t proud of his careless angry response and wanted to take it back as soon as the words left his mouth. But at the same time, seeing Beatrice in pain and not getting any answers from her, caused his always flowing just beneath the surface anxiety to shake free like fault lines shifting. “Why is it so important for you to keep this from me?” he asked, forcing the agitation out of his tone.

“Okay, okay. Calm down, worry boy,” Beatrice mumbled and then reaching out with her hand she tugged on his. “A little help.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Wirt gently moved her body into a sitting position, but it wasn’t without protests of pain and he winced at each sharp intake of breath she took. “So what happened?” Wirt asked after he’d found her a position that she deemed mildly comfortable.

“It’s not something that will make you all that happy with me,” she answered and began to gnaw on her lower lip.

“I don’t care. Just tell me what to do. I’ll leave the judgmental part out of it, I promise,” Wirt assured, but she looked at him askance, like she doubted his words and the expression made him frown. “You can trust me. All I care about is helping you.”

“I know. It’s only that … I feel like such an idiot,” she sighed and then lowered her eyes. “I know you don’t like it, but the truth is … I’ve been practicing magic again. Just small stuff really … then, the other day, I found a spell for reversing curses and thought, maybe stupidly, no … not maybe, It was so stupid and for completely superficial reasons and I should have known better than to try a spell that complicated when I can barely get the easiest ones to turn out right.” Beatrice paused and Wirt forced down the lump that had formed in his throat. “I wanted to remove my scars,” she confessed, looking up at him again.

She was right. Wirt didn’t like it, and also hated that he’d been the one to start the chain reaction that led to the situation they were in now. Six months before, Wirt had made an offhanded comment about her studying witchcraft and that one mention had ignited the spark of interest in Beatrice. At first it was just small things like her visiting book sellers that catered to those dabbling in magic, but then she had started seeking out witches for help and that was when Wirt had voiced his disapproval. All of his experiences with witches had been negative, and he reminded Beatrice that so had hers. But she’d argued that knowing magic sooner might have prevented her family’s transformation into birds, explaining that the witch who had cursed her had used dark magic. Beatrice promised him she would only practice the good kind … for preventive measures, of course. But even so, it now seemed things had taken a turn towards the dark anyway and something that had been an exasperating hobby of hers had now transitioned into a dangerous pastime. She was hurt, and Wirt had no idea how to fix it.

“Why do you even care about those scars,” Wirt exhaled loudly in frustration, but then remembered his promise not to be judgmental. “Sorry, I’m just I’ve always told you they don’t matter, and now look what’s happened. You’re in pain.”

“I was thinking about the honeymoon your parents paid for and the hotel being near the beach. Last time I went there, I had to wear a shirt over my bathing suit and I didn’t want to do that again. I wanted to feel normal ... like I actually belong in your world,” Beatrice explained.

“Well, that doesn’t matter right now,” he replied, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stay on task. “Let me take a look at your back.” Beatrice nodded and Wirt positioned himself behind her, but after pushing aside her hair, he drew back slightly at the sight of her shirt being drenched. He must have let out a gasp, because Beatrice asked what was wrong. “Um, uh, nothing,” Wirt replied as a wave of nausea pushed out from his stomach and up to his throat. The material of her shirt was black, so he couldn’t be sure what the wetness was from, but the color of blood flashed through his mind. Wirt didn’t want to throw up or worse pass out, so he willed himself to suppress his weak constitution and slowly lifted the bottom of her shirt. Relief washed over him when he wasn’t greeted with a metallic smelling red, but it wasn’t comforting either to see that her scars were weeping, like an infected wound.  

“You’re being so quiet. What’s wrong?” she asked after a few moments of silence transpired while Wirt inspected her back.

“It doesn’t look good,” he responded and then calmly described to her what he saw. “But maybe there’s something I can do,” Wirt contemplated out loud, and then ran off to retrieve the first aid kit. He did his best to cover her scars with gauze, but knew it was only a quick fix. “You have to tell me where you got that spell. Was it a book, or from a witch? Is there some way to reverse it?” Wirt moved in front of Beatrice to look at her directly.

“A book. I left it in the cottage, but I can’t remember where. I didn’t think anything of it, because I performed the spell days ago and nothing changed. I just figured it didn’t work and then forgot. I don’t know why this is happening now.” She shuddered from the pain.

“Well, it could be a lot worse. At least it’s not blood,” he tried to comfort her. “But I’ll have to go back to get that book and you’re in no condition to come with me. I’ll call Greg in to keep an eye on you while I’m gone. Mom would just worry all over you, not to mention it would remind her that I'm leaving to live in a world where stuff like this happens. So, let’s not say anything to her or Ben … or your parents,” he added the last part as an afterthought.

“I’m sorry. This is going to ruin everything we have planned, isn’t it?” Beatrice sniffed. It seemed the pain of her scars had pushed aside all her stubbornness. She was breaking now, her eyes filling with tears.

“No, I-I’ll fix this,” Wirt replied, his voice steadfast. “I’ll fix this.” He would have to, because weddings aside, Wirt didn’t know what the spell was capable of. Maybe it was helping her and what was happening now was just what reversing her curse entailed. Or maybe, it wasn’t helping. Maybe it was slowly killing her. Wirt felt his chest tighten and quickly shook the idea out of his head, knowing it would only exacerbate his anxiety. His focus for now was getting that book.

After finding Greg downstairs, Wirt brought him to his room, saying Beatrice wanted some company while he was out running wedding errands. His brother was happy to oblige and after Greg set up a game of checkers for him and Beatrice, Wirt told them he’d be back soon. “You better be. Greg always beats me at checkers and it puts me in a bad mood,” Beatrice teased, scowling for Greg’s benefit.

“You just need to practice more. Then you wouldn’t suck so hard,” was Greg’s no nonsense reply and despite the heaviness of what was happening with Beatrice’s scars, both she and Wirt shared a laugh. Greg the ten year old was far less whimsical than Greg the seven year old.

Before leaving, Wirt told Beatrice he loved her after they shared a quick kiss that Greg groaned in annoyance through, and she whispered the same words back to him. Then Wirt walked out his bedroom door, the garden wall his destination and from there Beatrice’s world to find her book of spells.

* * *

 

Leaves crunched beneath his shoes as Wirt moved down the path leading to the cottage he’d spent all of summer and the first half of fall gradually building with the help of Beatrice’s family. Wirt appreciated the effort they had taken in showing him how to construct something other than the perfect verse for a poem, especially since his skills lacked in most everything considered handy. The cottage they’d finished wasn’t much, but it would be enough for a newly married couple, and with any luck, he and Beatrice would be able to move away into something bigger in the coming years. That was his plan anyway, because even if he was now a part of the family business, Wirt didn’t like the idea of always living on their land. Having in-laws so near was something he suspected might eventually cause problems with the more independent Beatrice and him became as a couple.

Although, none of his future plans would matter if Wirt wasn’t able to find Beatrice’s spell book and get it back to her in time. With that thought weighing on his mind, he began to jog faster until he reached their home. Bursting through the door, Wirt was instantly met by the remnants of Beatrice’s presence. She’d been living inside since the cottage's completion and had slowly begun adding her touches to the place which mostly meant her clothes could be found strewn across anything and everything. But it wasn’t her clothing he was looking for, and after kicking aside a pair of boots placed in front of the entrance, Wirt launched into his search.

At first he rifled through the drawers of his writing desk, but found only things inside he’d placed there himself. At the top of the desk was his typewriter alongside a stack of unused papers, and a pipe he kept there for aesthetic reasons … but no book. Wirt then went to the nightstand next to the bed and pulled out more papers that he hastily tossed aside before realizing the words written across them were penned by Beatrice. Wirt thought the papers might contain her notes on spells, but upon closer inspection, saw that the words scribbled were about him her wedding vows. On instinct, he folded the papers and placed them into his pants pocket before moving on. Something told him that he might want to keep her vows close in case things took a turn for the worse.

The cottage was only one room, and finding a book shouldn’t have been too difficult, but all the obvious places it could have been turned up were filled with other items. Even the bookcase the proper place for a book- only held his tomes of poetry, some _Jane Austen_ works Wirt had brought over the wall for Beatrice, thinking she might enjoy them (she hadn’t), and some comics (that to his chagrin, she had).

As a last resort, he checked the wardrobe and found Beatrice’s wedding dress. Quickly Wirt looked away not wanting to tempt fate. After everything he’d dealt with on her side of the wall, Wirt knew that any superstition no matter how dumb sounding, should never be ignored in a world that contained magic. Keeping his eyes away from the white dress with accents of blue, Wirt continued searching by pushing his hand through every pocket of every other dress hanging inside. He came up with a few dirty handkerchiefs, some coins, and an old poem he’d written for Beatrice. Unfolding the paper and seeing the words of love inside made him wonder if she always carried his poems around with her. The thought made his heavy heart soften a little. He stuffed the paper in his pants pocket alongside the vows he’d put there earlier, and then continuing on, Wirt knelt down to search her shoes; none of which held anything significant.

The last item inside the wardrobe looked odd juxtaposed with all the other old-world feel from Beatrice’s world. It was a large plastic bag that contained the name of a bridal shop and at first glance Wirt paused. He wondered if maybe he shouldn't look inside. But it was only a momentary hesitation. What would it matter if he saw something for the wedding that maybe he wasn’t supposed to, if Beatrice wasn’t able to be at that wedding? Wirt opened the bag and the first thing to catch his eye was a negligée. He moved it aside and found some other assorted items he assumed were for the wedding night.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him that Beatrice had made these purchases and he definitely shouldn’t have felt embarrassed. But with Wirt being Wirt, it didn’t matter that his fiancé and him had transitioned into a sexual relationship months ago, because the thought of sex with Beatrice still made his heart race. Not only that, but seeing the contents of the bag reminded him that being physical with Beatrice wasn’t going to be this act they had find roundabout ways of doing in order to keep others in the dark about their activities. Hiding from her parents and his (even if his mom already knew, she still liked to live in denial) would no longer have to be suffered through. They’d be in their own home, free to do whatever they liked, and could stop sneaking around like two teenagers with a secret. Having to keep quiet a nearly impossible task while making love to someone like Beatrice, (a fact Wirt knew all too well, having had to shush her on multiple occasions, because of course, due to her personality, she was always the more vocal one) would be a thing of the past. She could moan and yell to her heart's content inside the cottage.

It dawned on him then that the spell book was something Beatrice more than likely would have been secretive about, considering his outspokenness against her practicing magic, and this led Wirt to the place most teenagers used to hide things from their parents under the mattress. Sure enough, that was where Wirt found the book, worn and tattered, like it had passed through many witches hands before finding Beatrice.

Wirt didn’t take the time to thumb through the spells, searching for the page Beatrice had read for removing curses. He would let her do that, because she knew more about magic than him. His only goal now was getting back home before anything else could happen to Beatrice.

* * *

 

Much to Beatrice’s consternation, the pain radiating up and down her back only worsened while Wirt was away, and eventually advanced to other parts of her body. By the time an hour had passed, it became nearly impossible to speak. Sensing her ability to fake normal was nearing an end, she tried to send Greg out of the room. She didn’t want him worrying and knew that was exactly what he would do if she couldn’t talk through the pain. “Nothing against you or the game, but I’m feeling tired.” Beatrice yawned to help sell her lie to Greg. “I think I’m going to take a short nap until Wirt comes back.”

They had gone through several games of checkers and growing bored of always winning, Greg began asking absurd question in between his moves. Even though he had matured in the years since first stumbling over the garden wall with Wirt, the inquisitive side of Greg that liked to come up with elaborate ideas that were more in line with her world than his, had yet to fade. But in her steadily declining state, Beatrice simply didn’t have the strength to keep a conversation going anymore. “Do you want me to tell mom you’ll be sleeping through dinner?” Greg asked as he began putting the board game and its pieces back into their box. “She’s making your favorite … _PIZZA_!”

Beatrice wasn’t sure if his enthusiasm for pizza was an attempt to convince her to stay awake or just his typical cheerful disposition. In any case, she mumbled, “Yeah, I think it’s sleepy time for me.”

There was a short pause where Greg stood with the game in hand and stared at her intently. “Are you okay? You look ... sad,” he finally spoke.

For a moment she debated whether or not to tell him. This was Greg. Sweet, cheerful, intuitive Greg who was like a brother to her. “I’m fine kiddo, just a little sad to be losing this,” she said, and made a back and forth motion between them with her hand. “I’m going to be an old married lady soon. Too old for checkers with a ten year old, I can tell you that much. Wirt’s going to lock me away to mend his clothes and clean his clarinet.”

“You’ll never lose me. I’ll always be here to kick your butt in checkers and every other game, no matter where you live. And when I’m older, maybe mom will let me visit you guys over there.” Greg made a movement like he was going to hug Beatrice, but knowing that was a bad idea, she pushed out her knuckles to indicate a fist bump instead. After knocking their knuckles together, they both pulled their fingers away, and shook them while making an explosion sound with their mouths. It was an action Greg had shown her somewhere along the line and eventually became their _thing_. Wirt had refused to look so ridiculous when Greg originally showed it to him, but Beatrice hadn’t minded.

“Thanks, Greg.”

“For what?” he asked.

Beatrice’s ability to talk was fading fast and she wanted to make sure to say something that really counted. “For being you. For seeing through to the best in everyone despite their faults. You’re who I want to be. You’re my … hero.”

Greg rolled his eyes, a sign amid many she had noticed recently that meant he was standing on the precipice of adolescence and it caused Beatrice to ponder what Greg would look like as a young adult. All early signs pointed to him being taller and bulkier than Wirt. Like Ben. Beatrice had only ever seen Wirt's father once from afar, and photos of him were sparse, but she'd gathered enough to guess the guy was skinny like his son. Wirt's height though, that was something he definitely got from his mother, and Beatrice didn’t think he would appreciate the inevitable height difference between him and his brother. That would definitely be something worth rubbing in Wirt’s face. She just hoped she'd be around long enough to see it. 

“I’m not a hero,” Greg interrupted her musings.

“What?”

“You called me a hero, but that’s not me. You’re the hero, because you and Wirt were the ones that saved me.” He smiled and then added, “And that’s a rock fact.”

Beatrice chuckled at his reference to an old phrase he used to say and with a goodbye smirk, Greg left the room. As sad as she was to see him go, Beatrice was also glad to not have to put up a front anymore, and slowly let her body crumple to the ground. Sitting had become too burdensome. There was a steady pulse of pain radiating up and down her back, shoulders, and neck that took time to reach through each vein and nerve. But sitting had provided its own pieces of torment, and while with Greg, she had been forced to use muscles. Now Beatrice could rest them.

But there would be no sleep, or falling into a void where she could forget the sensations of knives digging into her skin, and with a soft sob, Beatrice focused on the only thing she could while lying on the floor the underside of Wirt’s bed. After a few minutes of gazing, her eyes were able to discern the outline of a book against the darkness, and curious, Beatrice reached out through her pain and brought the book to her. It was a collection of works from one of Wirt’s favorite poets, Robert Frost. She wasn’t sure why the poetry collection was under his bed and not at their cottage where all his other books had been placed weeks ago when Wirt’s gradual move into their home began. But the thought wasn’t worth enough mind power to stay in her head for long, not when she was continually being assaulted by physical discomfort and with a ragged sigh, she held the book close, using it as a stand in for Wirt.

She hoped he would come back soon.

Time passed and Beatrice fell into a sort of daze. Through that confusion she thought the book held tightly against her chest was removed and cold arms wound around her. Maybe they only felt cold, because she was so hot. Then the sound of her name pushed through to her consciousness, but Beatrice couldn’t speak. There was a sorrowful groan and sob followed by her name being said again, but then the speaker began to quote.

_"Her pleasure will not let me stay._

_She talks and I am fain to list:_

_She’s glad the birds are gone away,_

_She’s glad her simple worsted gray_

_Is silver now with clinging mist."_

She recognized the cadence of Wirt reciting poetry and then found the will to open her eyes although she had no recollection of ever closing them.


	2. Chapter 2

Wirt was derailed somewhat coming back over the garden wall when he ran into an old friend who wasn’t actually a friend, but liked to think he was.

When it became apparent to the cemetery caretaker that neither Wirt nor Beatrice would stop crossing back and forth over the wall, even after his many warnings to them, the old man had given up his objections to their odd relationship. But this in turn created a monster in its own right. Before, they only had to deal with a belligerent Marty sometimes lecturing them on how crossing over the wall was messing with the fabric of life, or something along those lines. Wirt wasn’t sure. He’d always blocked out the ranting. Now, however, Marty saw himself as a friend they could come to for relationship advice. It was so much more awkward than angry old man Marty and as horrible as it was for him to think so, Wirt longed for the day when the caretaker became too old to work or even better, just up and died. “Not now, Marty,” Wirt said dismissively as the man came up to him. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Oh, well, this will be quick. Just heard ya was gettin’ married.”

Wirt didn’t know how exactly word had gotten back to Marty- especially since Beatrice and him planned for a small ceremony- but he nodded nonetheless, hoping against hope that Marty wouldn’t make a scene about not being invited. “Yeah, just a small thing at my house,” Wirt said, mentally kicking himself seconds later for letting Marty know the location of the wedding.

_Well, at least he doesn’t know the day._

“And on Halloween?” Marty replied.

_Damn it!_

“How the hell did you-” Wirt began to ask, but stopped when he heard the disgust in his tone. “I mean, we didn’t exactly announce it to everyone, but, yeah, it’s on Halloween.”

“Well, yer brother gave me this.” Marty reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope Wirt recognized as one of the handful of wedding invitations they’d sent. Only _creepy guy from the cemetery_ hadn’t been on the list of recipients. Wirt would have to have a talk with Greg when he got back home. “So, married on Halloween, eh?” Marty raised his bushy eyebrows just like every other person who had heard the date, everyone except Sara, who understood perfectly.

“Well, it’s not as strange as it sounds. It has meaning for us. It’s when we met and it fell on a weekend so … look Marty, I really have to go.” Wirt clenched the book he was holding in his hands tighter, thinking of the time he was losing.

“Oh yeah, sure. Just wanted to say thanks for invitin’ me, that’s all. Guess, I’ll see ya next weekend then?” He smiled and Wirt tried to not to cringe at the site of a tooth missing that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Uh, okay, bye,” Wirt answered, barely bothering to look at Marty as he dashed towards the parking lot and to his car.

The drive back felt entirely too slow for Wirt, even with him going ten above the speed limit, and after entering the house, Wirt rejected his mom’s request to have dinner. His only concern was getting back to Beatrice, but he did halt halfway up the stairs when he heard his mom call out to him. “You should probably check in on Beatrice. I’m not sure what’s wrong with her.”

Wirt turned around. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I went to see if she wanted dinner. Greg already said she’d told him she wanted to nap instead, but I thought I would check anyway. You know how Greg is always making stuff up-”

“The point, mom,” Wirt said, unable to hide his frustration.

She sent him a warning look, but didn’t bring up her son’s rudeness. “The point _is_ , she was laying on the ground sleeping and I couldn’t wake her to get her to move into your bed. I think she might be sick.”

Wirt didn’t have to hear anymore. He finished the rest of the stairs and raced into his room, feeling his heart instantly drop when the scene his mom had described was displayed right in front of him. In the seconds it took to pull Beatrice into his arms, it felt like slow agonizing hours. Wirt was terrified to the point of nausea and when he said her name, tears formed in his eyes when she was unresponsive. The slow breaths Beatrice pulled in and out of her lungs revealed she was still alive … but for how long?

Emotionally, Wirt was a mess. He wanted to be strong for Beatrice, but the thought that he might have to live without her was overwhelming. Pulling in a shuddering breath, he tried to push past the bleak images running wild through his mind. It wouldn’t help Beatrice here and now if he watched death slowly approach and did nothing because he was too paralyzed from fear of what might be. Wirt had to find calm, and remembering the book he’d taken out of Beatrice’s grasp, he began to recite a poem he’d memorized from inside its pages. Poetry had been a vessel of calm for him in the past and he hoped it would work again. Wirt had only gotten a few stanzas in when Beatrice’s eyes opened, and the surprise of it caused him to stop quoting.

“Why exactly are you reciting poetry right now?” Beatrice’s voice was weak, but strong enough to express a dash of the exasperation she used so often with him. It was never truly exasperation, but more of an exaggeration to annoy. Even now, she was playing her part of the yin and yang that made them who they were. The tears that had begun streaming after finding Beatrice unconscious now changed from sadness to happiness. Not only had he been able to wake her, but she was still being her usual self.

“It’s uh, Robert Frost. You were holding his book. I was panicking and sometimes recite poetry to calm myself. You know that,” Wirt sniffed. “And _My November Guest_ has always sort of reminded me of you.”

Beatrice balked. “But, it’s about depression.” Her eyes turned to slits as her face took on a sour expression that he wasn’t able to discern as a tease or not. But the fact she knew what the poem was about _at all_ made him smile.

“So you do actually pay attention when I talk.” Wirt was still cradling Beatrice in his arms and leaned down to press his forehead against hers. The skin that met his felt wet and sticky, like she’d been sweating out a fever.

“Trust me, I try to block it out, but sometimes when you say something enough, I can’t. You drone on and on and on,” she replied, and a small smile pulled at her lips so impishly sweet that he felt compelled to kiss it. But the soft whine Beatrice emitted when his mouth pressed against hers reminded Wirt that they weren’t out of danger yet, and he pulled back.

“Sorry. D-did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s okay. I was that was actually me … that was a happy sound.” Beatrice’s skin was pale underneath her freckles, but Wirt detected a hint of pink coloring her cheeks from her admission, and it was enough to make him kiss her again. This time he didn’t pull away so quickly.

Beatrice responded by reaching up to thread her fingers into his hair and used those hands to pull Wirt in closer, guiding his mouth into a more forceful kiss. Another whine moved through her throat and emboldened by Beatrice’s enjoyment, Wirt opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. She in turn mirrored his movements, her hot breath combining with his until Wirt moved his lips down to her jawline where he began trailing kisses backwards. After reaching the soft skin that joined her jaw and neck, Wirt continued his journey down to her collarbone, only stopping when her flesh ran into fabric. Wirt then turned his head to press an ear to her chest. He wanted to hear her heart and remind himself that she was still alive.

“What are you doing?” Beatrice asked, her voice slightly breathless, but also amused. “It’s not like you haven’t kissed my breasts before. I give you full permission to continue on with what you were doing.”

Wirt chuckled. “I’m listening to the rhythm of your heart. It’s very comforting,” he replied, knowing full well that what he said could be construed as weird, but not caring either. She was alive, and that was all that mattered. “I’m glad you’re awake.” Wirt finally moved himself from the security of her heartbeat and sat up to stare down at Beatrice. “When I came in and saw you slumped on the floor unconscious, I instantly thought the worst. Because with me being _me_ , I’m always going to think the darkest scenario is the most probable.”

“Yeah, and with you being _you_ , poetry had to be brought into this. But not only that, a poem about depression? I should be offended that it reminds you of me. All this time have I just been a muse for your weird obsession with melancholy?” Beatrice replied, one eyebrow raised in a challenging manner.

Wirt grimaced. “Heh, yeah, I know it sounds bad and that’s probably why I’ve never told you the real reason why I love that particular poem, but in my defense, it has a quality to it that feels like you do to me. Frost is describing his depression and how it causes him to love the opposite of what he thinks he should. You are in many ways the opposite of me. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing like in Frost’s case. Because, you have shown me ways to see and love things differently; things I probably wouldn’t have been able to see had I never met you.”

Beatrice was quiet for a moment, and then to his relief, her pink lips curved upward into a smirk. “Oh, Wirt. You’re far too sentimental for your own good.” The way she spoke indicated she didn’t see this as a fault, but more of a quality to be admired, and Wirt felt compelled to recite the poem’s ending to her.

_“Not yesterday I learned to know_

_The love of bare November days_

_Before the coming of the snow,_

_But it were vain to tell her so,_

_And they are better for her praise.”_

“Why was that book under your bed anyway if you love Frost so much?” Beatrice asked once he was done talking.

“I uh, don’t know,” Wirt lied to stave off embarrassment. He was glad she hadn’t opened the book after finding it. If Beatrice had, their conversation probably would have gone much differently. “Speaking of uh, books,” he said, transitioning away from Frost and the secrets hidden between the author’s pages. “This one is the reason I’m here.” Upon entering the room with her spell book, Wirt had tossed it aside when his eyes took in Beatrice’s state. Now he handed it back to its owner.

After helping her sit up, Wirt waited with bated breath while Beatrice ran her fingers through the pages. But the longer he stared at her, the more it became obvious to him that she wasn’t displaying the same symptoms as before. She was sitting without his help, and her face wasn’t betraying the least bit of discomfort. It occurred to him then that he’d even been able to kiss Beatrice without so much as a complaint about how his arms were pressed up against her scars. Wirt had been so caught up in the moment that he’d forgotten to be cautious of them. He wondered what it all meant. Was she better? Was any of this necessary anymore?

Inching closer to Beatrice, Wirt winded an arm around her back. She didn’t react, her attention captivated by one page of the spell book in particular. The first words he read after peering down with her was an ingredient: slime of slug. His eyebrows drew tightly together, wondering what exactly Beatrice had done with the slime of a slug. He didn’t think he wanted to know. “Did you find anything?” Wirt eventually asked, growing restless for a response.

Her blue eyes darted over to him and back again at the page. “I don’t it doesn’t say anything on how to take it back, what I did. I don’t know what else to do. There might not be a way to stop this. What if … this is it?” Beatrice frantically flipped through the pages, mumbling the word _no_ repeatedly.

But Wirt reached out to stop her hand and his touch brought her face back up to look at his. “Maybe it’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Beatrice sounded dubious.

“Well, I’ve been watching you. Before I left you could barely move. Now you don’t seem to be suffering as much. I’m wondering if maybe the spell has worked its way out of your system. I know it’s not the same thing as a virus, but it was bad enough that you passed out. Now you’re awake, like your fever broke. You seem weak, but are you still in pain?”

It took her a long moment to answer, as if she hadn’t really thought of how she felt. “I guess I’m sore, but I’m able to move. I don’t feel the sharp pains moving up and down my back anymore.” Beatrice shook her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“Let me look at your back,” Wirt demanded and sucking in her lower lip, Beatrice nodded before turning away from him. Grasping a fistful of material, he pulled her shirt up over her bra, and as gently as he could, removed the tape and gauze he’d placed on her skin earlier. The sight that met him underneath the bandages caused Wirt’s jaw to drop in surprise. “They're gone,” he marveled, and she shuddered when his fingers brushed against her now smooth skin.

“They’re what?” Beatrice asked, although he was sure she had heard him clearly.

“Well, to be more accurate there’s still traces of your scars tiny pink lines where they used to be, so not completely gone. But whatever you did, it worked. This spell just had a very cruel way of accomplishing its goal.”

“You mean I did something right for once? I actually got a spell to work?!” Beatrice whirled around, a look of glee on her face.

“Yeah, but you had to go through-”

Beatrice was already on her feet, pulling her shirt completely off and peering at her back from the reflection in Wirt’s floor length mirror. Grasping the tossed-aside shirt, he stood to join her. “Yeah, well, was it worth it? Was the decision to do this worth all the stress it put us through?” Wirt was angry in the face of her happiness. How could she just overlook all the worry she’d put him through?

“Why are you trying to ruin this? Everything turned out okay. And I did something right! I’ve been trying to get this magic stuff to work for the past six months and I’m finally not a failure at it. I’m good at something.”

He didn’t think she was taking him seriously. Beatrice’s eyes were still admiring her back, and it caused Wirt to snap. “Shit, Beatrice! I thought you were dying! I’m ruining this moment, because that’s serious!”

“But I didn’t,” she disputed, finally turning away from her reflection to close the tiny gap between them. Her chest pressed up against his and she brought her hands up to rest on his shoulders. “Look, I know what I did was reckless and if I could go back, I wouldn’t take the chance. But that’s me, Wirt. I do stupid impulsive things. I’m not proud of it, but I am proud of being able to get a very complicated spell to work.”

Wirt wrangled out of her hold and threw her shirt back on the ground. With a sigh, he went to sit down on his bed, elbows digging into his thighs as he propped his head up with his hands. “You’re not going to stop doing witchcraft are you?” He’d phrased it as a question, but it was more like a defeated statement.

Wirt felt the mattress shift as she settled in beside him, but he refused to look at her. “Wirt … I don’t want to hide this from you anymore. I kept you in the dark because you made your feelings about me practicing magic pretty clear from the start.” Beatrice paused to pull one of Wirt’s hands away from his face and laced their fingers. “But I like doing it. Working on spells, it’s a challenge, but it’s one I enjoy and it gives me purpose. As much as I’m looking forward to bossing you around as your wife, it’s not fulfilling enough to be just that. I want more. I want to feel important.”

“But you’re important to me,” Wirt replied earnestly, finally looking up to meet Beatrice’s gaze. “So very important and I’m scared that magic will become this thing that takes over who you are and destroys you.”

“I won’t let that happen. But in case I do get out of line, you’ll be there to help. You said it yourself, we’re opposites. I need your steady mind to rein in my brash one. If I have your support then you can tell me when I’m going too far. And you know you’re the only person I ever listen to.”

“But you won’t listen to me now. You don’t care that I’m terrified for you,” Writ criticized, narrowing his eyes, and he saw Beatrice’s frown in the face of his accusation.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she scoffed. “It eats me up that you hate what I’m passionate about. I want you on my side. I want us to do this together.” Wirt stared into her eyes for a long time, so long that an uncertain Beatrice whined the word, “Please.”

He knew Beatrice well enough to see that she was going to do magic regardless of what he said, and a struggle brewed within him. Wirt wanted to keep her safe, but also wanted to make her happy. He couldn’t have both … or could he? What good would it do for him to build a wall between them by continuing to voice his disapproval? But, if Wirt included himself in this thing Beatrice loved, then like she said, he could keep her in line or at least try. This was Beatrice after all.

It wasn’t even close to what he wanted for them. Wirt envisioned a quiet life, with him working on his poetry and Beatrice at his side. He didn’t want the headache and panic that came with magic. He didn’t want to go searching for his wife in the middle of the night, because she’d angered another witch and was now a toad a completely plausible situation in his mind. But Wirt also knew that he couldn’t live without Beatrice in his life, and taking a deep breath, he sighed her name in resignation.

“I’ll let you in on everything. There won’t be any secrets between us ever!” Beatrice said in a rush, her words tumbling out over one another, obviously having taken his reaction as a sign he was going to voice his opposition once more.

Wirt let out another sigh, regarding how their hands fitted together. It reminded him of when he held her hand through bandages, of that first night in his room. Magic was what had brought Beatrice back to him in the first place, and he was already leaving his world to live in hers. Having a wife that was also a witch should only be natural. “Okay,” he finally answered, but before Wirt could continue on to state his reasons why, Beatrice took his approval with enthusiasm and began to kiss him.

Wirt emitted a noise of surprise at the suddenness of her mouth against his, but expressed even greater shock when she pressed his body down onto the bed with hers. Beatrice was not gentle as her kisses quickly escalated into foreplay and attempting to get her attention, Wirt said her name several times during the tiny breaks when she moved her mouth away from his. But the reproachful tone he used didn’t stop her. Beatrice continued her aggressive behavior, managing to go through the buttons on his shirt and remove his belt, before he even knew what was happening. But when she pushed her fingers into his front pockets and began dragging down, Wirt knew he had to stop her before he lost his senses to what Beatrice was intending to do. He wasn’t that strong. Not even in the slightest. “Hey, you don’t want a repeat of what happened with my mom, do you? I have no lock on my door, remember? Everyone is home.”

The situation he was referring to was the reason his mom knew her eldest son had a sex life at all. She'd come home and walked in on something all three of them wished she hadn’t. The mention of this was enough to pull Beatrice from her passion. She paused in her position above him and smiled sheepishly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I got I was just really overcome,” she sighed, and then giggled. “And you have no idea how happy it makes me that I can share magic with you now.”

“Um, I kinda do,” Wirt chuckled, indicating with his eyes the placement of her hands inside his pockets and Beatrice’s laughed again, only louder.

“You know me,” she made a face, “Impulsive.”

“It’s not so long to wait till the weekend. Then you can use all those things from the bag inside the wardrobe,” he teased. Beatrice pulled one of her hands from his pocket to punch Wirt in the chest just hard enough for him to feel.

“That was supposed to be a surprise, dummy!”

“Next time don’t make me go on a search for your spell book,” he laughed.

“Fair enough.” Beatrice situated her legs so that she was no longer straddling Wirt, but before removing herself completely, her hand dug out something from the pants pocket she was still holding.

“Hey!” Wirt protested, misjudging what she was grasping for.

“What’s this?” Beatrice asked, ignoring him to pull out the pages Wirt had gathered from the nightstand back in the cottage.

“Oh, uh, your vows. I thought that if things got bad enough you might want to recite them.”

Beatrice sat down on the edge of Wirt’s bed, unfolding the papers while he stood to fix all the things she had undone on his outfit. After returning everything back to its pre-Beatrice-attack state, Wirt pulled her shirt from the floor and handed it over to his soon to be wife. “These aren’t my vows, Wirt,” she told him, while pulling her v-neck tee back on.

“No?”

Beatrice shook her head, causing her already mussed curls to hit him in the face as he sat down beside her. “No. They’re what started as my vows notes really. I came back to my room the night you proposed and began writing down everything I loved about you. I thought having a list would help in the writing process, since you know, I’m not all that great with words like you are.”

Wirt remembered the one poem she had written him. He kept it in his wallet, her lone attempt at poetry. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Okay, _anyway_ ,” Beatrice replied flippantly.

“Do you want to read me some? I’m very curious now.” Wirt grasped the papers she had placed down to put her shirt back on, but Beatrice snatched them away. He raised his eyebrows in response. “Really? After everything that happened today, you can’t even let me see?”

Beatrice frowned, but eventually sighed, “Fine, but stop staring at me with those puppy dog eyes.” Her voice was mildly annoyed when she began quoting the words she’d written six months before, which consequently made all the positive things she came up with about Wirt sound terrible.

“Wow. You had to bring my big nose into this?!” Wirt laughed at one point after Beatrice had taken up four sentences to talk about his facial features.

“Better watch it or I’ll punch that nose,” she snapped back, but he could tell she was trying to fight a bubble of laughter wanting to join in with him.

“Anything else? You haven’t mentioned my ears,” Wirt teased.

Beatrice flicked one and Wirt drew back, still laughing. “Okay asshole, see if you can find something funny about this,” she challenged, and clearing her throat, began speaking in a softer, more loving tone. “I love the way he makes me feel about myself. I love that he’s taught me to love who I am despite my weaknesses. I think he’s the only person who has ever accepted me for me and I want to show him my appreciation for that for the rest of my life as his wife.”

Wirt was quiet for a moment as he digested her very un-Beatrice like words. They filled him with warmth, and feeling touched by what she had revealed, he moved away from her to walk over to his closet. “Hey, where are you going?” Beatrice called after him.

“Just give me a second,” Wirt replied as he pulled down shoe boxes from the top shelf. There were too many, all filled with random items that held meaning to him in some way or another. Wirt was a hoarder of things sentimental a very neat hoarder. Everything had a particular place inside a specific box labeled with its contents and the date he had finished compiling it. Even in this, he was a nerd.

With a loud crash, one of the boxes he’d tried to reach fell to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Wirt looked over at Beatrice, expecting her to give him a weary look, but she just stared back with a bored expression. “Are you done yet?”

“I-I’m not sure.” Wirt bent down to collect all the items that were strewn around his room, and when his hand grasped a photograph of him and Beatrice at Junior Prom, he smiled to himself. This was the box. It had been compiled a year ago, only put away and dated when it had become too full to add anymore; the box simply labeled “Beatrice.” He walked back towards her with the box, but paused when his foot hit something. Looking down Wirt saw the poetry book of Robert Frost, the one Beatrice had been holding. Inside were secrets he’d never shown anyone, too embarrassed for even her to see ... especially her.

“Wirt are you stalling?” Beatrice’s voice brought him back to the present. If they were going to be honest with each other from now on, with no secrets between them, then even this had to be shared.

“Hold on,” Wirt replied, reaching down to pull up the book to place on top of Beatrice’s box, and then made his way back to the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

In hindsight, Beatrice could see every mistake she had made, every instance of harm she had inflicted on Wirt. The initial high she experienced after removing her scars and convincing Wirt to accept her as a practicing witch had receded quickly into the background behind guilt. Even if his show of memories from their time together was a way for him to happily reminisce with her, Beatrice could only see the negative.

A picture of them at Junior Prom “ _Oh, you mean the time I punched that guy out in front of everyone?”_

“Yeah, but what happened afterward was a big step for us. And he deserved being punched what are you even talking about?”

The ace bandage Sara had given him to wrap around Beatrice’s ankle  _“Oh, I remember you putting that on me right after I gave you a panic attack with my rude question.”_

“Beatrice, that rude question led to our first kiss.”

Pieces of yarn from Adelaide’s house  _“Oh god, you had to bring that up? The time I almost handed you and Greg over to a crazy witch?”_

“But that’s not true. You were giving yourself up to save us.” Wirt’s voice remained mostly calm as he trotted out his saved items for her to see, but she could tell his composed shell was starting to crack under the strain of all her negative feedback. Beatrice just wanted this to end. Let Wirt see his keepsakes as they were without her view of them tainting his.

“Wirt, I don’t want to go back to that time when I-”

“No,” he interrupted. “Let me tell you the story of why I kept these.”

Beatrice was quiet for a moment, then slowly nodded for him to continue.

 _Let’s get this over with_.

“When I took the scissors, there was some yarn attached to the handle. At first I was going to toss them the scissors I mean, but decided not to. Then after a day, I began holding out hope that I would see you again. I wanted to give them back, because I knew taking the scissors had been a jerk move. And eventually I did get them to you, but when I came back over the wall, I found the yarn was still in my pocket. I kept those pieces on my desk for a long time before they ended up in your box, and used them as a reminder not to react so impulsively when I’m hurt. If I’d just stayed around to hear your side of the story things might have gone differently between us. Maybe I could have helped you and your family become human sooner.”

Wirt’s face was expectant he wanted a positive reaction for once, and she mulled over how to phrase her disagreement in the nicest way possible. “That is a very sweet way of looking at it.” Her voice was gentle. “But I can’t see it like that. To me it’s a reminder of something terrible. One of my worst memories.”

“Why though? Why can’t you look at it from my point of view?” Wirt asked, his frustration finally breaking through. “I wish none of these things made you upset like they obviously have.”

Wirt and Beatrice sat on the floor of his room with the memory box between them, and in reaction to his mild outburst, Beatrice pulled her knees up to tuck under her chin. In the face of all her failings, the spell stunt looked so much worse. It was only the latest in a long line of offenses. The euphoria of having her scars removed was completely gone now. “I’m sorry that I’ve done so many terrible things to you. What happened today no one should have to go through something like that.”

“How did this happen? How did this turn into the opposite of what I wanted.” Wirt scratched his head and placed the lid back on the shoebox. Beatrice still clutched her legs tightly as he scooted in next to her. “I only showed you these things to prove how crazy I am about you; so crazy that I saved pieces of string. String! And if I’m being honest, I even wrote a poem about them titled _Pieces Back to You_.”

She tried to fight the grin that enticed her lips at the mention of there being a poem, but Beatrice’s need to tease him was overpowering her self-hatred. “Of course you did.” There was a sardonic edge to her words that she wished she had been able to hold back. Now was not the time for mocking.

Wirt noticed her passing look of amusement, and a small, knowing smile lit his face as he nodded slowly. “Oh, I should have guessed. It’s my humiliation that makes you happy. How did I not see it?”

“No!” Beatrice instantly protested. “That makes me sound so bad. I’m guilty of a lot of things, but hating your poetry is _not_ one of them.”

“It’s okay, you wouldn’t be the first person to ridicule me for it.” Wirt shrugged.

Beatrice sighed in exasperation, not sure if he was playing a game, or really thought this was true about her. “How can you say that? You know I love your dumb poetry.”

“But you admit that you think it’s dumb.”

“Not in the way you're implying. It’s dumb, because you’re dumb and-” She paused. Everything coming out her mouth was only making the situation worse. “By now you should know dumb is a term of endearment when it comes to me.”

“Oh, I know,” Wirt snorted.

Still unsure if he was serious or not, Beatrice let go of her legs and moved to kneel in front of Wirt, making sure she held his gaze. “Look, I love all the silly, romantic things your write me. I even carry your poems around in my dresses sometimes. They help me get through the day. Some I even have memorized and I recite them to calm myself. Now, this is not something I ever intended on telling you, since knowing how sentimental I really am gives you power over me. Please, take into account how vulnerable I’ve made myself for you and stop saying I don’t like your poetry.” The last sentence of her passionate declaration sounded more aggressive than she intended, and Beatrice swiftly apologized before adding, “See, you have me in a fit over this. I really need you to know how much I love the dumb words you spout almost constantly.”

A quiet spread between them once Beatrice finished talking. She waited, slightly anxious and slightly angry that he was prolonging his response. Finally, in what felt like a lifetime’s worth of anticipation, Beatrice’s heart lifted when her confession produced a smile on his lips. “I already knew you were sappy. That’s not a surprise,” he said.

Beatrice arched an eyebrow and after settling back in beside him, punched Wirt in his side. “Let me pretend that isn’t true, okay? I like projecting an air of menace without anyone knowing about the reality inside,” Beatrice explained after he shot her an annoyed look for hurting him.

“Oh, I see. The lamb masquerading as a wolf on a quest to keep the world at bay. She would rather be alone than let others love her for the gentle creature she truly is,” Wirt responded, leaning into Beatrice, his breath trailing down her neck. “You cannot fool me lamb, for I have seen who you really are.”

Beatrice frowned, but giggled when he nipped her neck. “Now there you have the start to a dumb poem I hope to read someday … or gag at.”

“Well, if it’s my dumb poetry you love, and not all these other things you seem to have attached negative feelings to,” he motioned towards the box, “then I’ll show you some really dumb poetry. So dumb and humiliating it will make you forget my box.” Wirt reached for the Robert Frost book she had discovered under his bed earlier. “I was hoping to save this for later, but I think you need it now.”

“Wirt, are you having delusions that you wrote what’s in that book?” Beatrice teased, but his face was serious.

“Heh, no, I’m no Frost. Far from it. But I have used his book as a way to hide poems, knowing you would never actually go through any of my poetry books like you have with every other personal belonging of mine.”

He was playfully facetious, but she gave him a withering look anyway. “You’re always oversharing when it comes to your poetry, what exactly could you have written that you needed to keep hidden?”

Wirt was quiet, and then without a hint of warning his hands were in her hair, his lips moving softly against hers. A jolt of surprise coursed through her body, but Beatrice didn’t question why Wirt had felt the need to kiss her now. It didn’t matter because there was never a moment where she didn’t want his lips on hers. As she moved her body in closer, Beatrice was in awe of just how far they had come. Their first kiss had been a disaster of inexperience, and even the ones that had followed lacked the intensity he produced in her now. Wirt didn’t even have to try because practice makes perfect, or whatever the saying was. Beatrice couldn’t recall, not when he was forcing her mind away from being able to have coherent thoughts. It was all very base words in her head now about kissing and the heat it produced in her body. All too soon though, Wirt pulled away, leaving her wanting more. “What was that came out of nowhere,” she almost laughed.

“Well, I was answering your question ... what the poems are about,” he replied with chagrin.

“About kissing?” she asked, collecting the thoughts his kiss had scattered into the corners of her brain.

“And other things like ...” Wirt’s voice was still sheepish as he trailed into an answer that never came.

“Other things?” The word he was refusing to say came to her all at once, and Beatrice felt foolish for not having grasped it sooner. “Sex?” She couldn’t keep back the wry smile that spread across her lips and when she said his name, it was a half-hearted scold. “Wirt, you wrote erotic poetry?”

He nodded. “Things pertaining to sex, us being intimate, your body, along with very embarrassing descriptions of how you make me feel. I was inspired by those feelings so much that I had to put them down as words to really process them words I never intended to show anyone. But if we’re going to be married, with no secrets between us, then I thought you might want to see these.” Turning Robert Frost’s poetry so that the pages were facing downward, Wirt shook the book back and forth until four papers fluttered to the ground. He collected them, and wearing a reserved expression that faltered just enough to show his true emotions, Wirt handed the poems over to Beatrice. “Please … be gentle.”

“Wirt, I …” She wasn’t sure what to do as her hands grasped the papers. Beatrice’s initial mirth drained away in the face of the power over him that he was handing to her. He was entrusting her with something very personal, and the emotion he was trying to hide, the one she could clearly see because he was Wirt the boy who did a dismal job of keeping his sensitive nature from bleeding through, made her nervous. Beatrice didn’t want to say the wrong thing and hurt him. It was too much of a risk after everything she had already put him through that day. “I can’t, Wirt. You’ll be embarrassed and as much as I enjoy teasing you, this is too you’re basically giving me a knife and telling me to run you through.” Beatrice shoved the poems back into his hands.

“No, I’m giving you my heart and telling you not to crush it. Everything I wrote I meant. It came from my soul!”

Beatrice sighed at his melodramatic tendencies, but played along for his sake. “Exactly. It’s your heart, and that’s not something I want to chance hurting.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Wirt offered. “You can read them, a-and not tell me how you really feel. I don’t mind.”

A soft flutter tickled the pit of Beatrice’s stomach, and then another joined in. Soon, those sensations grew like they were the wings of a thousand butterflies, and Beatrice blanched at what she was slowly coming to realizeshe was nervous for herself. She didn’t know if she could handle reading Wirt’s words about her. She was … _shy?_ This was entirely unacceptable. But Beatrice couldn’t admit it to Wirt. “I have an idea,” she finally said, trying to keep her voice level, not wanting to indicate to him just how flustered she really was. “Save these for our wedding night.”

Wirt’s look was skeptical. “Why?”

“If what you’ve written on these papers is that personal, then why not make it your wedding gift to me?” It was all just a way to stall, but Beatrice assumed that at least by the weekend, she could prepare herself to hear his poems.

“But what about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“What do I get? You know, if we’re going to be exchanging wedding gifts.”

“Um, how about I’m already giving you something something so great you wrote erotic poetry about it,” Beatrice joked.

“I’m serious. I want you to write me a poem, so our gifts are equal.”

“But that wouldn’t be equal at all,” she derided. “You know I’m not good with words like you are.”

“I told you, you don’t give yourself enough credit. I always reread that poem you gave me. I take it out of my wallet at least once a week.”

“Wirt, please stop,” Beatrice groaned.

“Do this for me. I’ve wanted you to write me another poem ever since that first one. I never asked because I knew you’d say no, but now it seems only fair. And besides that, it would mean so much to me if you did this one thing.” He was begging now, and Beatrice could hardly stand it. What a mess her idea had turned into.

Pursing her lips, Beatrice readied herself for a fight that lost its fire before she even had a chance to harness the sharp words forming on her tongue. Her choice was simple, yet hard to accept all the same. If it made him happy, she should do it. Even if it meant her words would be compared to his. At least they would both be humiliated. Him, because he wrote about sex; her, because she couldn’t write at all. “Fine,” her relent came out as an angry retort.

He smiled and Beatrice shook her head, meeting his happiness with a frown. She would have complained if Wirt’s mother hadn’t knocked on his door and opened it a few seconds after their compromise. “Oh, it’s so good to see you’re feeling better,” Wirt’s mother said to her. Beatrice nodded, not sure how she knew anything had been wrong. “I just came in to let you know that Sara is downstairs,” his mother continued, and then left the room.

“One more day. That should give you enough time to come up with something for a poem,” Wirt gleamed. Her agreement to write poetry visibly erasing all the negative she had inflicted on him that day. At least there was that.

“Yeah, just don’t get your hopes up,” Beatrice replied as Wirt helped her stand. “Can my poem be about how much I don’t want to write a poem?”

Wirt chuckled. “Well, why don’t you also lace it with profanity, because going that route would be only natural for you,” he taunted, and she pinched his arm while also proving his point with a swear word directed at him. 

* * *

 

“He wants you to write him erotic poetry?” Sara’s voice broke into a cackle that Beatrice tried not to become bothered with. She was regretting ever telling her friend about Wirt’s request.

“No, not erotic he never said that. Just poetry. He’s the one with the erotic verses.” Beatrice shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth, half paying attention to the movie playing on the TV in Sara’s room.

Originally, Sara wanted to make an event out of Beatrice’s last night staying over before wedding number one. Something called a Bachelorette Party had been brought up, but the bachelorette herself instantly squashed the idea. Beatrice loathed parties; too many people from Wirt’s world to stumble in front of. So as an alternative, her best friend suggested an old fashioned sleepover. Although, it wasn’t old fashioned to Beatrice. It was her first, since all the other times she had slept at Sara’s, Beatrice slept alone in the guest bedroom. Now the two shared a room, both in sleeping bags on the floor.

“So, are you going to write him a poem?” Sara inquired, still snickering.

“I told him I would, but I have no idea what to write,” Beatrice replied, speaking in between chews. “I hate writing. Anything I come up with will look pathetic when compared to his work.”

“Then why don’t you plagiarize?” Sara suggested, causing Beatrice to peer back at her with a doubtful expression.

“And you don’t think Wirt has _every_ poem _ever_ written memorized? He’s a nerd for words.”

“That’s true.” Sara shrugged. “But there has to be something he’s not familiar with.”

“Impossible. That boy has a head full of verses, haikus, and limericks.”

But Sara challenged that assertion. “I don’t believe that’s entirely true and if I’m right, I think I might be able to solve your problem for you.”

Beatrice made a sweeping gesture with her arm directed at Sara. “You have the floor. Make your argument.”

“Okay, well, Wirt loves poetry, right? And he also loves music. Meaning, he loves music that sounds poetic. But he does not like pop music and can be really snobby about it. What if you lifted some lyrics from a pop song, tweaked them a little, and made it your own? He’d never know.”

It sounded like a horrible trick to play on Wirt, even if it did fix her predicament. She couldn’t do it. “ _That_ is a completely wicked idea,” Beatrice commented. “And I mean wicked in the bad sense of the word.”

“I guess you the practicing witch, would know. But then again, wouldn’t something wicked be right up your alley?”

“Excuse me, I’m a good witch,” Beatrice claimed, raising her chin slightly in defiance.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Sara mocked.

In retaliation, Beatrice threw several pieces of popcorn at Sara, who returned fire with some broken tortilla chips that fell down the front of Beatrice’s nightgown. A short food fight ensued that ended in a draw, with both of them covered in various pieces of edibles. Sara left the room to clean up, while Beatrice pulled a few gummy worms from her hair, shook out her sleeping bag to remove crumbs, and turned her attention back to the TV. The movie playing was some dumb one where the girl was trying to get the guy; also known in Wirt’s world as a romantic comedy. She wasn’t a fan, but Sara had insisted that this was what girls watched at sleepovers, and now Beatrice was starting to suspect her friend’s strategy for the poem dilemma had been lifted directly from a romantic comedy’s plot. It wouldn’t surprise her. It sounded just dumb enough to work.

“You know, I don’t think it matters what you write Wirt,” Sara said, after returning from the bathroom. “He’s so stupid in love with you. I’m positive you could jot down the back of a cereal box and he’d think it was Shakespeare.”

Beatrice smiled in embarrassment. “I don’t think that’s true at all, but thanks anyway,” she stated, and then wistfully added, “I wish you were coming to the wedding on my side. I’d like to see what your twisted brain could come up with to fix some of my other problems, like my Aunt Mary’s presence. I still can’t believe she’s going to be there.” The mere thought of her aunt produced a scowl on her face every time and this time was no exception.

“Beatrice, you are far more twisted than I am. I’m sure you would just find a way to discreetly kill her with one of your spells, but then of course, you would need my help in disposing of the body,” Sara replied matter-of-factly, and Beatrice nodded in agreement.

“I suppose you’re right about that.”

A fit of giggles followed, a stark contrast with the murder plot they had just discussed. Once it was over, the two friends decided they had endured enough of the good looking couple on screen who just couldn’t make it work at least not until right before the end credits. Switching the movie off, Sara suggested, “How about less romance and more dismemberment of zombies?”

Beatrice clasped her hands together and placed them over her heart. “Oh, Sara, you had me at dismemberment,” she said using an amorous inflection, and snickering, her friend went to turn the video game console on.


	4. Chapter 4

The soft morning light beamed through the slits in Wirt’s blinds, creating a pattern on his wall thin lines of light separated by dark. It was the first thing he saw after waking with the remains of a dream still tugging at his conscious, wanting him to go back and enjoy the rest. But he found the design of contrasting light and dark more intriguing. Prodding the right side of his brain, it produced a few words of poetry that found their way spoken into the stillness of his room. “Oh light of day, aligned with the darkness of shade. You could not be more different, yet still compliment and aide. Let this difference never fade, or be laid … to rest. Eh, that doesn’t work.”

Wirt shook his head against his pillow. He’d already composed many poems about differences complimenting each other. It had become a recurring theme in his writing ever since he began dating a hot-tempered redhead who challenged his dullness with her passion, and this early morning inspiration wasn’t going to be one of his better compositions.

But admittedly, it had been some time since Wirt felt the urge to write anything similar to the poem he’d just half-heartedly created. Lately, his words had verged away from the opposites attracting motif, leaning more heavily towards the sensual, and he was reminded of yesterday’s revelation to Beatrice. Laughing, Wirt thought of the mortification he’d felt handing his explicit poetry over to her. But now, after a night’s sleep, there was only indifference. So what if she knew? Beatrice had seen him naked in more ways than just the physical, having supported him during some very difficult times. To her, he was an open book. She knew him prologue to epilogue, and his poetry describing their sex life was just a part of that ongoing novel.

Still, he wished she would have read the poems already instead of putting it off until Saturday. Wirt may not have cared anymore if she knew they existed, but the annoying need for her approval was still present. As needy as it made him feel, he always had a compulsory thirst for that.

Stretching his limbs, Wirt looked over at his nightstand and to the clock on it that told him he had an hour to get ready. He was meeting Beatrice and Sara for breakfast, along with a few stragglers from their group of friends who hadn’t left for universities, but stayed in town to attend community college. No one in their circle, save for Sara, knew the truth about him and Beatrice that the long distance couple wasn’t actually moving just a few states over to Pennsylvania where she supposedly lived. They couldn’t know the truth for obvious reasons, and Wirt was glad that he’d never formed a close friendship with anyone other than Sara. It wouldn’t be so hard to cut the rest of them off. They wouldn’t wonder why he never updated his social media, or texted back. He could disappear without worry, and return once in a while to put to rest any rumors that he and Beatrice were actually dead that was, if the wall let him. He hoped it would.

Sitting up, Wirt positioned himself on the edge of his bed, feeling a faint sense of melancholy as his feet touched the floor. Everything was changing. Yeah, it was changing for the better, but there was still a pull of nostalgia for how things used to be, even if those things were seen through rose colored glasses.

Wirt glanced over to his door, remembering when Greg would consistently barge through it to wake him. Now 5:30 in the morning had come and gone with Greg already at school. He no longer came in like he used to; hadn’t in over a year. That rambunctious, barely able to contain his excitement Greg had faded behind maturity. He was ten and much less interested in waking his older brother in the morning. He’d rather sleep in, and contrary to how Wirt felt when those early morning wakeup calls were constantly happening, he missed being jolted from his sleep by that annoying little guy who had turned into a much more composed preteen.

Then there were the memories he’d made with Beatrice during their complicated dating relationship. Those would now go further into the back of his mind as new memories were created of them as husband and wife.

No more taking breaks at his job to pull Beatrice into a nearly empty movie theater where they could make out in the last row, until work called him back behind the concession counter. Wirt had quit that job months ago to spend more time setting up for his new life over the wall.

Waiting at the garden wall would cease too. He could stop staring at it every other weekend in anticipation, hoping the doorway into their worlds would let Beatrice appear like the apparition of beauty she always was; each time, holding her carpet bag, her red hair blowing in the breeze.

And more importantly, after today, Wirt wouldn’t have to watch Beatrice leave over it anymore, worrying that he would lose her for good if the wall stopped working for them.

That was the reason Wirt was able to look past his nostalgia and on towards the future. Wirt was marrying Beatrice and giving up his world for hers because of that fear. He never wanted to experience again the feeling of not knowing if their last encounter would truly be a last. While great for what it was, dating Beatrice wasn’t enough because forever had been his aspiration all along.

“May this difference never fade for there can be no light without dark. They have found one other and are complete, each having left its mark.” Wirt stood with a soft groan. “Yeah, still needs work,” he commented to himself and went to get dressed.

Downstairs, Wirt found the house empty his parents already at work. But on the fridge was a note from his mom, who just couldn’t get the handle of texting and still liked to do the old fashioned thing of putting pen to paper. It was a reminder for him to stop at the tailors. To save money, Wirt was borrowing a suit from his stepdad for the wedding, and naturally, Ben was taller than his adopted son. The suit had to be adjusted to fit Wirt, and it was one of the last few errands he would run before leaving for the wedding on Beatrice’s (and soon to be his) side.

Unfortunately for Wirt, he wasn’t able to wear the same suit to that ceremony. Not long after the engagement, he had learned the rules concerning men’s fashion over the wall, and Wirt was being forced to wear clothes he’d only ever read about before in books mainly through those of Jane Austen. Altogether, his outfit consisted of a waistcoat, a tailcoat, breeches, a top hat, and something called a cravat. He had blanched at the whole thing when it was first brought out by Beatrice’s mom. But Wirt kept his protests to himself, not wanting to cause waves in an already shaky situation for Beatrice. She didn’t want a wedding, let alone two, and Wirt refused to add more stress to something that was supposed to be about them, but had turned into two events for everyone else. Wirt had to constantly remind Beatrice of the after. “Do this for them now,” he would say, ”because once it's over with, what comes after is really all that matters anyway.” She would agree and it would calm her … until the next time.

But these were tiny wedding annoyances, which was how Wirt viewed them in comparison to what he was getting for putting on a show for their family and friends having Beatrice for a wife. And there was a part of him that looked forward to the spectacle of her wearing the dress he’d only glanced at in the wardrobe. From his quick overview of it, Wirt doubted his fiancée had chosen it herself. The empire waist gown was large with a train long enough to fill up the entire wardrobe had it not been folded and stuffed to the side. And puffed sleeves? It wasn’t a style Wirt had ever known her to like. He imagined if she had her way, Beatrice would wear one of her own basic dresses, or probably a pair of leggings. But he doubted that would have gone over well with her mom.

The sudden vibration of his phone in his pocket, pulled Wirt from his thoughts and he took the device out to see Sara had messaged him. Only it wasn’t Sara, but Beatrice using her friend’s phone. He knew, because of the message.

 _Don’t be late, nerd!_ (a knife emoji placed next to a heart)

Wirt replied back with _Love you too_ (the kissing couple emoji)

Beatrice sent back an emoji she used a lot with him: the unamused face.

Wirt snickered and put his phone back in his pocket. Then grasping his keys, he left out the front door to meet his friends for breakfast.

* * *

 

The next morning Wirt said goodbye to his family, suffering through a few hugs and kisses from his mom, and a pat on the back from Ben their relationship as awkward as ever. Wirt saved his last goodbye for his brother, who gifted him with another toy dinosaur. Greg didn’t believe his toys were magic anymore, but still thought it was wise to give Wirt the dinosaur. “The last one helped you out with Henry, and I’m supposed to give you something old for weddings, right? I think that’s what it is, and I’ve had that dino for forever. I’m too old for it now, so that means it’s old,” he explained.

Wirt tried not to cry, but failed miserably. Tears welled in his eyes as he took hold of the toy, and Greg responded with a pat to his back just like Ben had. “Time to grow up, older brother,” he said in a tone that betrayed his actual age.

“Yeah, we all have to do that in the end,” Wirt agreed, wiping away the pools in his eyes, before they overflowed down his cheeks.

Later when Wirt reached the wall, he luckily avoided Marty on his way over, and found Henry waiting on the other side. Beatrice’s youngest brother greeted him with his usual unaffected voice, letting Wirt know his place, then led him to the cottage where they both remained until the ceremony. Henry told Wirt that it was Beatrice who requested he watch over him. “She said to keep you in line,” he explained, giving Wirt a look that mimed his older sister’s whenever she was dead serious.

“I’ll do as you say,” Wirt acknowledged with a nod, going along with what Beatrice had obviously set up to make her brother feel important.

The rest of the day went by in a haze for Wirt, with really only one portion sticking tightly to his memory his first sight of Beatrice walking towards him in her wedding attire. Her face was serene as she slowly approached Wirt, but she grimaced upon reaching the altar. Her expression a tease for only Wirt to see, letting him know that despite the cumbersome outfit, she was still the same Beatrice underneath.

When the whole affair was finally over, the haze settled. Wirt was able to see clearly to drink in the outcome of the day he was now married to Beatrice, and as the two newlyweds walked together towards their cottage, everything already done for everyone else, Wirt anxiously wanted to begin his new life with Beatrice right. That meant carrying her over the threshold. Unfortunately, she had other plans because after reaching the cottage, his new wife didn’t even bother waiting for him to do the courteous thing by opening the door for her first, let alone carry her over the threshold. She raced in ahead of him, threw her veil onto a nearby chair, and flopped herself on the bed, wedding dress and all with the white and blue material taking up nearly most of the mattress. “Hey, what are you doing?” Wirt called from the entryway.

“What does it look like? That whole thing was exhausting. I think I need to power nap before we do anything else.” Her eyes were mischievous, but Wirt ignored it. No matter how enchanting she looked to him at that moment, he was a stickler for traditions, and he’d been denied carrying his bride through the door of their new home.

“Our wedding was exhausting?” Wirt tilted his head to the side, expressing his unhappiness with her word choice. “Becoming my wife drained you?” Truth be told, he was exhausted too, but hadn’t felt the need to express it; the filter in his brain kept him from saying insensitive things. But of course, Beatrice contained no filter.

“Oh, stop being so sensitive.” Beatrice exaggerated a groan. “That is not what I meant. You try and stand for hours in a tight corset while engaging relatives in small talk, especially when you don’t actually like them. I can’t believe Aunt Mary came. I’m sure it was just to show her disapproval. What a toad! Well, she certainly looked like one when she was staring at me. I’m just glad Louisa was otherwise _occupied_ and couldn’t attend,” Beatrice made a gesture towards her stomach, indicating a larger size. “No birth control on this side of the wall to prevent the shame of pregnancy out of wedlock.” Beatrice snickered, but then frowned. “That was cruel. I shouldn’t have said that.” But her moment of remorse was quickly over when she yawned and rolled onto her side, leaving a space for Wirt to join her. “Why are you still standing there? Come here.”

Wirt shook his head. “Not until you let me carry you over the threshold,” he demanded, causing Beatrice to stare at him as if waiting for the punch line of a joke. “I’m not joking,” he stated, answering the question written across her face.

“Wirt, no offense, but you would drop me, and what’s the point anyway? I’m already through the door.”

He stood his ground. “Please, don’t be difficult. Let me have this one thing.”

Beatrice was quiet as she regarded him, her expression unreadable, then with a sigh, she stood again. “Okay husband of mine, this is me trying to be less difficult, so please appreciate it.” Wirt rolled his eyes, and she laughed in the face of his annoyance. “Oh, but I guess we better do this the right way if this is so important to you,” she continued, placing her pitched veil back onto the loose bun her hair had been twisted into. It shifted to the side and fell off.

“Forget the veil. I didn’t like it anyway. It covered your hair,” Wirt said. It was the only complaint he had about how she looked, and his heart sped up a notch at the remembrance of seeing Beatrice for the first time walking towards him in her wedding gown.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know I plan on wearing my hair down for our second wedding, no mother to dictate how I should look on that side of the wall,” Beatrice grinned, and then reaching Wirt, she wound one arm around his neck. “Although, I might have to deal with Sara and that girl is a whole other beast. We already had a fight about her making an appointment for us at a salon. She always tries to come back with her being my maid of honor as a way to make me feel guilty, honestly I”

“Shhh,” Wirt told her. “Let’s do this right. No talking.”

“Who says I can’t talk? Did I overlooked the handbook on how to prepare for being carried over the threshold?”

“Beatrice,” Wirt warned, but it came out sounding like a whine.

There was a look on Beatrice’s face that he recognized as her trying to hold back a retort. She’d used it a lot during the planning stages of their wedding mostly with her mom, but sometimes with him. When her features turned placid again, she smiled and said, “Okay, whatever you have planned in your head that needs to be done, do it.”

Wirt nodded, and then reached to pull her into his hold, but almost instantly lost his grip under the many folds of her dress when he began walking and consequently dropped Beatrice onto the floor of the cottage. He would have apologized if she hadn’t started in with him almost immediately. “I told you, Wirt. Don’t take it personally, but you’re not the muscular type. And you know that’s not something I care about, but it does mean you’re not going to be able to do this no matter how much you want to.”

“You’re right,” Wirt sighed, conceding to her view of the situation. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.” He actually knew exactly what he’d been thinking, but felt too ashamed to admit it to Beatrice. Wirt viewed carrying her over the threshold like he did every milestone they reached … a step that needed to be taken to prove his insecurities wrong. It seemed foolish now. They were already married. What did he have to worry about? But still, sometimes past anxieties had a way of seeping out from the dark corners of his heart. He’d have to get over that eventually.

Offering his hand, Wirt helped Beatrice to her feet, expecting the criticism to continue it was definitely deserved. But instead she was smiling. “Don’t look so sad. There might be another way.”

“What other way?” he asked, but she was already pushing him out through the door again.

“Let me on your back.”

“Huh?” was his less than articulate reply.

“We’ve done this before remember? And I think it will work better than trying to do this the proper way.” Wirt stared at her skeptically, but Beatrice was insistent. “No, I’m serious, and besides, it’s more _us_ anyway, isn’t it?”

Wirt was still hesitant, but she looked too enthusiastic about her idea for him to just disregard it even if it made him feel stupid. “Alright, hop on.” He turned around and she hiked her dress up to hitch her legs up over his hips. Beatrice seemed heavier than he remembered, but that probably had to do with all the extra clothing she wore as opposed to the last time- when she had fallen over the wall wearing a simple everyday dress.

“Just like old times,” she giggled into his ear as he walked her through the door, and suddenly he didn’t feel so awkward anymore.

“Yeah, like old times,” he repeated, and kept moving until they reached the bed, where Wirt playfully threw her down. Beatrice let out a startled laugh and he fell in beside her, reaching around her torso to pull his wife in closer an act the proved difficult with all the fabric of her dress pushing up against his body. The sooner it came off the better.

“Some things aren’t like old times. Back then I don’t think I would have dared try this.” Wirt kissed the side of her neck, trailing his mouth slowly down to her cleavage, which forced a small laugh from Beatrice.

“I think if you had it would have moved things along more quickly. No hemming and hawing over if you really wanted me, because unlike you, I’m pretty sure I already knew what I wanted,” Beatrice replied, moving to lay her head against Wirt’s chest.

“Sure it seems so easy in retrospect, but try and remember what it felt like when we didn’t know. Telling you and not getting a positive reaction would have been devastating for me considering how attached I’d become to our friendship. Sometimes it’s easier to remain in the dark and pretend.”

“You mean not take action because you’re afraid of facing the truth,” Beatrice disputed, making a light hearted jab at his anxiety issues.

“Old habits die hard,” Wirt commented. “At least we’re over that. No more pretending.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to play pretend. I want to experience what I have now,” Beatrice replied and after a short pause, added, “You know what would make this more comfortable?”

“What?” He kissed the top her head.

“If we were wearing less clothing.” Beatrice pulled at the cravat around his neck until it fell away.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Wirt admitted, a sly grin playing on his lips. “But, um, maybe we should give ourselves some privacy first.” Wirt glanced over his shoulder at the door he’d neglected to shut while walking Beatrice through its archway.

“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” she giggled, and he removed himself from the comfort of her arms to close the door.

On his way back to the bed, Wirt passed by the backpack he brought over that morning. Inside were a few remaining items from his room that hadn't yet made the move over the wall with him. Among those assortment of things was his erotic poetry. He stopped to pull his wedding gift out, and when Beatrice’s eyes fell on the papers in his hands, she snapped upright. “Wirt, I … do we really need to do this now? We have all night … and tomorrow morning and the next day. ”

Anxiety was written all over her face, a sight that almost caused Wirt to laugh. Why was she so nervous? After everything they’d been through, this was what brought out her fear? “Beatrice, I told you it doesn’t matter to me what you wrote, just that you wrote something. I’ll love it no matter what.” Wirt joined her on the bed again. He smiled, trying to coax away her frown, then took her hand in his, causing their wedding bands to brush past one another. Beatrice hadn’t wanted an engagement ring. She wasn’t the type for jewelry or so she had told him on multiple occasions when he tried to bring the subject up. In fact, she had only agreed to wedding bands, when Wirt became upset after her initial refusal. “Why are you so nervous?” His voice was calm, trying to ease her out of the mood she had suddenly shifted into. Beatrice looked like she was struggling to talk and bit her lower lip. “What?!” Wirt pressed, exasperated.

“I’m I don’t know why, but I don’t think I can take hearing about myself or us … doing stuff.” Beatrice’s blush came on fast and it triggered Wirt’s own embarrassment.

“Uh, well, it’s all written out of love, even if the uh, subject is you know, and, y-you’ve heard my poetry before. Most of it’s about you anyway. This is n-no different,” Wirt sputtered, his heart thrumming loudly in his ears. Hadn’t he gotten over this fear already? Beatrice’s uncharacteristic shyness was bringing his mortification back in full force. Wirt had to find a way to fix this or their wedding night would be a mess of awkwardness. Thinking off the cuff, he tossed his poetry aside and using his free hand, Wirt cupped Beatrice’s cheek. “I don’t need those papers. I have most of the poems memorized anyway.”

Taking a deep breath, he shifted over Beatrice, forcing her to lay down again. She gave him an uncertain look in response. “Wirt, what are you …”

He didn’t answer; instead, Wirt moved away from her until he sat near the foot of the bed. From his position, he grasped the blue lace stitched into the hem of her dress, and pulled it and several hidden petticoats upward. He expected her to say something in the form of a tease when he touched the top of her stocking just above the knee, but his wife stayed silent. Wirt decided to take this as a good sign and untied one garter, and then the other. A brief pause ensued while he gathered his courage, then with a gulp, Wirt began reciting one of his poems the one he’d written praising Beatrice’s body, and _yes,_ there was a description of her legs. For her part, Beatrice continued to keep quiet, and Wirt wasn’t sure why. He only hoped that it wasn’t because she thought he sounded pitifully bad. Although, if she did, Wirt assumed she would have shut him down at the start.

In this manner he carried on, removing her confining wedding attire piece by piece to coincide with each line that came next in his poem, until at last, there was only her corset and the chemise underneath left. The final line was about her breasts and he untied the laces at the front of the corset, then pulled it downward along with the chemise to expose her top. All the while, Wirt described how perfect her breasts were, especially how it felt when his lips pressed against their soft freckled skin. For emphasis, he cupped one, softly moving his mouth across it in measured caress, and for the first time Beatrice reacted she giggled.

_Well, that’s better than a groan of disgust._

“Wirt, just please finish this unbearably long undressing of me and go right into one of your poems about sex,” she said, a slight frustration in her voice, and it was enough annoyance to make him stop abruptly.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Wirt moved away from her. “You didn’t say anything. I-I thought you didn’t I thought you liked it.”

“You’re always taking things out of context, you sensitive fool,” she sighed and sat up with him. “I appreciate everything you’ve said. Really, it was sweet with just the right amount of erotic to make me want to jump forward to this part.” Beatrice crashed her lips against his and gave Wirt a good long, sensual kiss. When she finally released him, Wirt felt dizzy. “Besides,” Beatrice continued. “It’s my turn to undress you. You don’t get to have all the fun.” One corner of her mouth pulled upward into an impish grin and there was a look of menace behind her blue irises.

Wirt chuckled, but it came out sounding strangled. He certainly didn’t think this part would be much fun for him. What could possibly be praised about his body? “Are you going to be reciting your poem as you go along?” he joked to ease his discomfort.

“No, I don’t think the lyrics I copied from _Britney Spears_ will fit this situation,” Beatrice replied nonchalantly.

Wirt shot her a questioning look, but before he could ask what she meant, his wife pushed him down onto the bed and began the process of removing his clothing. Although unlike him, she moved at a much faster pace.

* * *

 

“So, why the blue?” Wirt was pressed up against Beatrice, their limbs tangled with one another's, both of them covered in the afterglow of lovemaking.

“The what?” Beatrice mumbled against his neck.

“The blue of your dress? I thought you hated that color. Why wear it on our wedding day if it holds such negative reminders of your past?” Wirt asked.

Pulling back slightly, Beatrice propped her head up with an elbow, and looked at him with a shy smile spread across her lips. “That was uh, actually my own addition.”

“You did that?” Wirt was impressed.

She nodded, causing the curls he’d released from their pins earlier, to bob. “That dress was purchased in a shop full of already worn clothing. Someone else bought it for their own wedding, before it ended up there. I wasn’t happy with that or the dress style. One look at that thing and you know it wasn’t my choice.”

The skin between Beatrice’s eyes creased and Wirt reached out to trail his finger up the bridge of her nose to remove the unhappy look. “I guessed as much. It doesn’t matter though because you still looked beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes, but beneath her rebuff of his compliment, Wirt could see traces of approval. “Anyway,” she drew out the word to make it sound sarcastic. “I decided to fix my problems with the dress, and despite my inept sewing skills, managed to add blue lace to the fabric. I wanted to leave my own personal mark on it.”

“But blue?”

Beatrice shrugged. “I felt it was appropriate. I should learn to accept my past, shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what you’ve always told me? I need to spin my mistakes into a more positive light? And for all the terrible decisions I’ve made, some of them weren’t so bad. Look at us, I chose you and that was a very smart move on my part.”

Wirt ran a hand up her arm and settled it in the strands of red just above the base of her neck. “I’d say so,” he agreed, guiding Beatrice in so close that his lips were just touching hers. A passionate kiss quickly followed, but they pulled apart moments later when the room unexpectedly grew dark. The lantern they had brought with them into the cottage had gone out. “I’ll go fix it,” Wirt offered and went to remove himself from Beatrice’s arms, but she pulled him back.

“Hold on, let me try something,” she said sitting up. A few words spoken in a language Wirt didn’t recognize, left her mouth and all at once the candle on his writing desk grew a flame that flickered to life.

Wirt laughed in amazement, mouthing the word _wow_ , while Beatrice glowed under his approval. “See there _are_ positives to having a witch for a wife.”

“Yeah, just don’t burn my poetry,” he snickered.

“Don’t worry. I’ll only burn the bad ones.” She winked. 


	5. Chapter 5

The week after the wedding was mostly spent traveling. It wasn’t so much a honeymoon a concept Beatrice hadn’t heard of outside of Wirt’s world, but rather her new husband wanting to visit places beyond the mill and the village surrounding it. All through their courtship, they had never been allowed to stray far alone together, which meant traveling had been out of the question. Some societal rules could be bent and shaped just enough for her and Wirt to get around, but that had not been one of them.

They took one of her parent’s horses, and packed lightly for the short journey. In preparation, Wirt had taken riding lessons. He did have his experience with Fred to lean back on, but Beatrice needed to be sure that the three years in between hadn’t dulled his memory. She certainly wasn’t going to be the only one directing their horse which way to go.

Together, they visited places that held significance to them. Their first stop was at the tavern Wirt had been forced to sing at, and Beatrice, in her bluebird form, had been shoved out of. This time he did not sing although there were some who remembered the _pilgrim_ and tried to coax another song out him, a request he firmly rejected. And Beatrice wasn’t shooed away either, but did glare at the woman who had tried to knock her out with a broom before. The tavern lady was still there working, and when Wirt introduced Beatrice as his wife, a wicked idea entered her head about using magic for retribution in some way. The thought was only entertained briefly, leaving when her promise to Wirt rang like a warning bell inside her memory. She would only use magic for good, and as harmless as a simple tease sounded, like a plate of food suddenly falling from the woman’s grasp, Beatrice assumed it wouldn’t be a gray area to Wirt her well-behaved, humdrum husband. And Beatrice wouldn’t have him be any other way. He was the voice of reason she sometimes lacked.

With good intentions to revisit most every stop made during Wirt’s first unexpected tumble over the wall minus the few more unpleasant ones, they soon found it would be impossible to fit everything in if they were going to return in time for their second wedding. Those time constraints kept them from visiting Quincy Endicott, and neither knew exactly where The Woodsman had gone after everyone went their separate ways that night in the forest. But Wirt vowed to find out one day.

Beatrice and Wirt were though able to make a stop at the old Langtree schoolhouse; still named the same even after the owner, who was also the only teacher, had taken the last name Brown. She remembered Wirt, but unsurprisingly didn’t recognize Beatrice something that had become a recurring theme on their trip. They stayed for a day, but left as evening approached, despite Mrs. Brown urging them not to ride at night. Wirt’s allergies had been triggered by all the animals attending school, and even if his inhaler was at the ready, Beatrice put her foot down. Wirt may have been the voice of reason, but she was the voice of not giving a damn about being polite if it meant her husband was going to suffer.

That night they traveled deep into the forest before stopping to make a bed of blankets placed over the earth. There they made love underneath the canopy of trees. But of course, with Wirt being his typical straight-laced self, he had objected at first when Beatrice began pawing at his pants, taking the kiss he had begun too far. She had obviously misjudged his intentions.

“Stop being an exhibitionist,” he scolded.

“Who am I showing off for? The animals? Like their brains are big enough to comprehend what’s going on,” Beatrice huffed, continuing her attempt at undoing his pants. He gently nudged her hands away.

“In this world, some animals can produce cognizant speech, in spite of their small brains.” He arched his eyebrows, while tilting his head in her direction.

“What? You mean me? I was under a curse. I still had a human brain,” Beatrice argued.

“But what about Fred? He wasn’t cursed, but definitely was sentient.”

“Okay, I don’t know what sentient means, but Fred isn’t here. There are no animals around that can talk.”

“What about those animals at the school; not to mention the frogs on the ferry? They couldn’t talk, but were sentient. They wore clothes!”

“Stop saying that word, no one knows what it means except maybe other nerds with their heads shoved in books all day!”

Wirt ignored her jab at him. “And even if they aren’t of the talking, wearing clothes variety, I’m sure most of them know what mating is.” Wirt was speaking in a tone that meant the subject was closed, but she wasn’t going to back down. Beatrice was clever enough to know that arguing wasn’t going to work with him, and it also ruined the mood, so she changed tactics.

“Then, it’s only natural, isn’t it? As _sentient_ beings we should mate. Mate with me, Wirt,” Beatrice said in a seductive voice, but broke off near the last word, a fit of giggles taking over.

Wirt’s resolve appeared to crumble moderately as he laughed along with her, and Beatrice played this to her advantage. “Come on stallion, mount your mare,” she continued to tease. “Or are you so afraid of making love to your wife?”

“Never afraid of that. Not anymore anyway,” Wirt replied, all hesitation leaving his face.

Beatrice reveled in her won battle, but jerked upright when Wirt stood. “I thought you weren’t afraid anymore.”

“I’m not. Just need to move Robert away,” he stated, glancing over his shoulder at Beatrice still on the blankets.

Robert was the name Wirt- the sentimental fool he was- had given their horse. It was after his favorite poet, and it seemed to Beatrice that her husband was just as bad as Greg when it came to assigning names to animals. It didn’t matter that her parents had named their horse something else long ago. For this trip, he was Robert.

Beatrice watched Wirt tie the horse to a tree farther away, and lamely joke, “Now no peeking, Robert,” loud enough for her to hear, then he came back to their bed of blankets.

“You’re such a nerd,” she affectionately insulted.

“Yeah, but that’s what you like about me,” Wirt replied, coming to position himself between Beatrice’s legs, grasping her waist, and pulling her lower half tightly against his. Then he leaned forward and they kissed.

“I suppose you’re right,” she sighed, after his mouth moved away from hers to trail kisses down the side of her neck. “But you’re terrible at making jokes. Not even your nerdy charm can get you past that.”

Wirt pulled away from Beatrice to stare down at her. “Like yours are any better. _Come mount your mare_ ,” he imitated her in a high-pitched nasally voice that didn’t resemble how she sounded in the least.

“That’s a terrible impersonation of me.” Beatrice scrunched her nose. “Besides, you laughed. Admit it, you entertained the thought of us as horses and enjoyed the humor of it.”

“If we were horses then we’d be doing this in a very different way,” Wirt chuckled.

“Been watching many horses mate lately?” Beatrice made fun with a laugh.

Wirt just mumbled a soft, “Shut up,” into her ear, before he bit the lobe.

After that they didn’t talk anymore, until Wirt fell down beside her some time later, both of them spent. Gathering Beatrice into his arms, he spoke three words she would never tire of hearing. “I love you.” And she did what she always did when Wirt told her this. She repeated the words back to him.

* * *

 

It was common knowledge to Beatrice that typically a bride would shed tears on her wedding day. Not that _she_ did. She had already made it through one ceremony without her eyes watering. And she didn’t think it would be an issue at her second wedding. Yet, someone _was_ crying, and with the way they were going on, it looked like Sara thought _she_ was the bride about to walk outside and down the small runner in Wirt’s backyard on her way to meet her groom. “Stop crying, Sara. Isn’t it supposed to be me  _the bride_ , who chokes up? Not that I’m going to, but still.”

They were in Wirt’s house, standing off to the side of the sliding glass door leading into the backyard. Sara had been waiting for her cue to walk out first, but there was a technical glitch with the wedding music. Wirt’s mother had run inside in a panic, telling them they would have to wait, and it was that wait that had brought Sara to tears. The interruption gave her friend time to reminisce and that was when the crying started.

Initially, Sara’s blubbering threw Beatrice off balance. In the years since she had come to know her beyond the faceless girl Wirt had talked about, then dated, and ultimately broke up with, one thing had stood out she wasn’t a crier. Sure, she felt sadness. Beatrice had seen that emotion on her many times, along with compassion, stubbornness, and self-assuredness. But, crying had never been part of the package that made up Sara … until now.

“I can’t help it. Everything’s changing. You’re marrying Wirt, and leaving me, and...” Sara sniffed, carefully wiping her fingers underneath her eyes, mindful of her makeup. “I’m glad I decided waterproof mascara was the way to go.”

Beatrice let out an annoyed sigh. “Stop crying or I’ll take my hand and smudge all the mascara you made me wear, ruining the _look_ you perfected for my wedding.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sara’s eyes narrowed in response to the threat.

Beatrice thought about it for a moment, and decided her friend was right. No, she wouldn’t. All things considered, Sara had held back her penchant for playing dress up, and after canceling their hair appointments, only asked that she be allowed to do Beatrice’s makeup. Sara wasn’t being unreasonable, and didn't deserve to be snapped at. “Sorry, I guess I’m on edge. Wirt and I didn’t arrive home until late last night, and then this morning it was straight into wedding preparations. I’m extremely sore from riding Robert all week.”

“Robert?” Sara's eyes were probing. “ _Who_ exactly is this Robert you were riding?”

Beatrice waved a hand dismissively. “Wirt named our horse well, my parents horse, but he wanted to change its name while on the trip. Ergo, Robert. Anyhow, everything was thrown together without much preparation besides making sure Wirt knew how to ride a horse. We really shouldn’t have tried to squeeze that trip in between our weddings.”

“But you had fun,” Sara reminded her, then added with a laugh, “Being outside, having sex … outside.”

Beatrice gently pushed Sara, causing her friend to drop the small bouquet of orange and yellow daisies that were supposed to accent the red of her bridesmaid dress fall colors for a fall wedding. “Drop the subject,” Beatrice ordered.

“And my flowers too apparently.” Sara was still laughing as she reached down to pull her bouquet back up.

“Why do I even tell you anything?” Beatrice groused.

Sara’s mirth quickly vanished from her face. “Well, soon you won’t have to worry about that. You’ll be gone.”

“Oh, not this again,” Beatrice groaned. “I’m not going to be far, and I don’t see how this is any different than how things are now. Wirt and I will visit. We’re just a garden wall climb away from being back here.”

“I know, but with Wirt going with you, it’ll be like my link to you is gone. He talked about you so much. It always felt like you were here with us even when you weren’t. And really, who else is going to help you pick out dresses like the one you’re wearing now. Not him.”

Beatrice glanced down at the white dress with the flared skirt that stopped just short of her knees. Sara had been with her to select it at the bridal shop months ago. The dress was exactly what she wanted for her second wedding simple and comfortable. “In my world this dress would get me a few choice words from my mother, and probably my Aunt Mary too. So, maybe it’s better you don’t help dress me anymore,” Beatrice joked, but when she looked back up and saw Sara’s sad expression, she added, “Maybe someday the wall will work for you too and you can visit us.”

“You know it doesn’t and it won’t,” Sara replied, her voice somber.

The pessimism she expressed wasn’t an emotional overreaction. They had already tried on multiple occasions to get Sara over the wall and the results were always the same, Beatrice could see her world. Sara couldn’t. The thought of this brought a sudden sting to corners of her eyes. “Oh shit,” Beatrice mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m starting to cry,” she admitted with a frown.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sara apologized. “I’m ruining your day. I shouldn’t have brought my own problems into this. I’m the worst maid of honor. I’ve made your wedding all about me.”

Beatrice shook her head. “No, it doesn’t matter. This is my second wedding. I’ve been married for over a week. Ruin this day all you like by feeling sad. I’m sad too.”

They rushed into an embrace and began crying, only separating when Wirt’s mother slid the glass door aside. She made a motherly sound that conveyed her affection for the touching moment between friends, and followed this by saying, “We’ve fixed the hiccup, but had to alter the ceremony a tiny bit. The record player broke and even Wirt can’t fix it. So, he’s changed the music up.”

Beatrice inwardly groaned. To go along with the vintage theme of their wedding, Wirt had chosen a record player to provide the musical accompaniment. Now it seemed the old piece of junk he had found in that resale shop he frequented so often, had been just too vintage to work.

Beatrice and Sara exchanged sidelong glances at the news, but both remained quiet as their new instructions were given. Sara would go out during the first song, meet Greg who was the best man, at the start of the runner, and then Beatrice would follow when the second song began playing. As for what those new songs would be, she could only guess. _Something moody and dreary_ , Beatrice assumed.

* * *

 

Wirt wondered if he was making the best decision. It had been a rushed decision, thought of when the only other option was bringing a portable CD player outside. That wouldn’t have worked. It would’ve sounded terrible and ruined the atmosphere. So why not? Why not take the opportunity? He knew how to play an instrument, and there was no good reason why he couldn’t play that instrument at his own wedding. He even knew some peaceful sounding songs that would work for when Sara, Greg, and Beatrice made their way between the small rows of plastic folding chairs set up for the wedding guests.

This could work. He would make it work. And Beatrice would love it because she would have fuel for teasing him. Months from now maybe even years, she’d tell everyone within earshot what her dumb husband had done at their wedding.

* * *

 

It was a familiar sound Beatrice had heard many times over cassette tapes, and occasionally in the comfort of Wirt’s room. She didn’t mind it. Never had. Playing the clarinet was something Wirt loved doing, and he wasn’t bad at it. Not at all.

He used to play the instrument in his school’s marching band, but had given the extracurricular activity up when it became apparent that his music was interfering with his time with Beatrice. Wirt couldn’t be bothered to attend the occasional weekend away game when it meant being away from her. They were already struggling to make it work as a couple, and marching band was just one more added stress to their complicated dating life. In the end, he had decided she was simply more important to him. At least, that was what he told her that morning in October two years ago when she asked why he was at her door instead of with Sara on their way to an opposing team's school.

Since that day, Wirt occasionally picked up his old instrument to play, and Beatrice sometimes followed his impromptu performances with a question. She wanted to know if he still thought his choice to leave marching band had been the right one. Beatrice could see how much of a nerd he was for his clarinet, and it sometimes bothered her that she stood in the way of that passion. But he would always shrug off her concern.

“This is just a _thing_ I love,” Wirt once told her. “But you are _who_ I love.” He then went into a long poem about the faults of materialism that Beatrice tried not to roll her eyes through.

So when Beatrice heard that familiar sound of Wirt’s clarinet coming from his backyard, she knew it had to be him playing. Sara didn’t seem to register the significance, and maybe it didn’t matter so much to her. But to Beatrice the sound brought a second round of tears to her eyes. “Wirt, you idiot,” she said, after Sara left to join Greg and then moved out of her line of sight.

She wasn’t supposed to cry at weddings not even her own. Crying was a weakness, and the sudden jolt of feelings coursing through her body, almost kept Beatrice inside. She didn’t want to fall to pieces, and was defenseless against the wave of stupid emotions attacking her. Crying alone with Sara was one thing, but in front of a group of others … she couldn’t let that happen.

_Ugh Wirt. You had to ruin everything by coming into my life and making me this emotional fool. I hate you._

Nevertheless, Beatrice persevered through the rush of tears flowing freely down her cheeks, collecting at her chin, and dripping onto the front of her dress. She came in a stanza too late, but managed to walk in her ballet-style flats, out into the crisp afternoon air, and down the red runner that led her to Wirt. He was standing next to Ben the wedding’s officiant (because who needed an actual one when your ceremony was just a show for everyone else) and just like she assumed, Wirt was playing his clarinet. Beatrice thought she heard him hit a flat note when she first came into view, but he quickly recovered, playing until they were at last standing together. Wirt turned and handed his clarinet over to Greg, who placed the instrument back into its case. Then moving to face her again, Wirt took Beatrice’s hands in his own.

“Thanks for making me cry, dummy,” she whispered through Ben’s introduction.

“Well, thanks for supporting my clarinet-ing,” he replied, and for the first time she really looked at him. There, filling his amber eyes, were his own unshed tears.

* * *

 

After an all too brief ceremony brief in the sense that it was about an hour shorter than their first wedding, which kept being paused for others to come up and read passages from scripture, poems, and god knows what else, Wirt honestly couldn’t remember the reception began. It wasn’t really a reception. There was no hall rented out, no live band or DJ, just some finger foods and punch set alongside their wedding cake on a table in the backyard. Wirt didn’t expect this part to last all that long either and once it was over they could finally be done with weddings.

Beatrice clung to him, which was her per usual whenever they were around groups of people from his world. She seemed so fragile when she did that, unlike her usual confident self, and it felt oddly heartening for him to play the role of the stronger one. It wasn’t a part he wanted to keep for long though. Eventually he’d fall back into his supporting role to her fiery spirit, something Wirt didn’t mind at all. It was just the way they were.

All throughout the reception, Wirt kept touching her hair with soft caresses. It was down, with a single yellow daisy placed among the orange and auburn that made up her curls. She looked so beautiful, and Wirt could hardly believe everything that had happened between them in the three years since they first met that his life would diverge so drastically from the one he’d wanted for himself that Halloween night; a night that felt so very far away from him now.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked him. “Thinking of how you got the better of me, making me cry at my own wedding.”

Wirt smirked. “No, but that was definitely a plus.” He laughed and Beatrice ribbed him. “But uh, I was actually thinking about us.”

Something in his gaze must have indicated to Beatrice that he was feeling sentimental (he was), and that he might start waxing eloquently about her (he was gathering those thoughts together) because she said, “Well, save those deep romantic reflections for another time because I think someone is here to see us.”

Wirt glanced away from his wife and in the direction she was looking. To his utter horror, Marty the crazy cemetery caretaker was waving at them from the backyard’s entrance. “Oh man, I forgot!” Wirt put his hands in his hair and pulled the strands upward in frustration. “Greg gave him an invitation, but I found that out at the same time we were dealing with that whole mess with your scars, a-and it just slipped my mind.” Wirt removed his hands from his hair, and took a deep breath to squelch his anxiety. “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with this before he ruins everything.”

“Deal with what? I’m the one who told Greg to give him an invite,” Beatrice said, causing Wirt to stare at her in shock. “What?” her voice was defensive.

“Him?! The weirdo old man who thinks he’s our friend?”

Beatrice’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re being rude. Marty _is_ a friend. I’ll admit he’s an unconventional one, but you know Wirt, you weren’t always on time picking me up from the wall. Sometimes I talked with him. He’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? Who am I who am I even speaking to right now? You’re skeptical of everyone.”

Beatrice shook her head. “You’ve known me for three years. I would think you of all people would recognize when someone has changed for the better. I’ve changed. You’ve changed. And Marty’s not the same person who used to come up and lecture us about the wall.”

Wirt didn’t have anything to follow that with. She was right. Neither of them were the same person they’d been that first night when he’d wandered his way into her world. Beatrice was now kinder and more accepting of others apparently more than him. “Marty has actually given me a lot of information on my mother’s history and what happened to her family after she went over the wall.”

“Hey, I tried to find that stuff out for you too.” Wirt didn’t know why he sounded so forceful, like he was jealous … _of Marty_? Very quickly he realized how ridiculous he was being, and backtracked. “But what I-I mean is that’s good. Good! I’m glad he was able to tell you things that I didn’t couldn’t find out.” He coughed.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. It wasn’t mean-spirited, but more of her usual, _you’re such a nerd_ expression. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked over to Marty. They hugged, and he handed her a piece of paper that Beatrice seemed confused about getting. She told him thank you, and then Marty’s beady eyes pegged Wirt. He came over to him and for once, the man didn’t smell of alcohol. He’d actually cleaned up, wearing something of a suit that looked like it had been popular in the 1970s.

“Congratulations,” Marty shouted, causing Wirt to shrink back. But he quickly recovered and took the old man’s extended hand for a shake.

“Uh, thanks,” Wirt replied.

“I’m really happy for you two. Mazel Tov.”

Neither Wirt, nor Beatrice were Jewish, but he accepted the blessing anyways.

* * *

 

"Are you ever going to tell me what Marty gave you?” Wirt asked for maybe the fourth time that night.

Beatrice shot him a threatening stare, then took another drink from her paper bag covered container filled with the fruity alcoholic beverage Sara had concocted for everyone. They were both getting drunk. Drunk in a cemetery on their wedding night. How romantic. It had been Sara’s idea. Just because it was their wedding day, didn’t mean it negated Halloween night, and every Halloween they made the same trip to the cemetery near the garden wall with their friends.

So after the reception, their usual group minus a few who weren’t able to be in town for the wedding, made plans to meet up and wait for the girl who had disappeared over the wall so many years before. Only three knew the truth of who that girl really was, but Beatrice, Wirt, and Sara weren’t revealing their secret anytime soon.

“I told you, it was just a piece of paper. Let the subject go,” Beatrice groaned in response to Wirt’s pestering.

“Bullshit. Why would you keep it then?” he retorted, his head swimming in a heavy fog. He was swearing. That seemed to happen a lot when he drank. Although, he’d only been drunk once before, on his eighteenth birthday. When your dad was an alcoholic, it tended to keep you away from wanting to repeat the past.

“Oh look, they’re having their first married fight,” Funderberker snorted. He was drunk too. But if he hadn’t been, Wirt was sure he would have punched him. If he knew how to punch. Did he? Balling his fist for practice, Wirt began to hit the air around him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, shut up!” Beatrice shouted, bringing Wirt’s attention back to her. Oh yeah, she swore too when inebriated.

“Who are you was that meant for me?” Wirt sounded wounded.

“Not you,” Beatrice replied.

“Me?” Funderberker’s slow drawl asked.

"No, she didn't mean you, honey," Colleen cooed into her boyfriend's ear.

Beatrice stood with a wobble, and Sara jumped up next to her. She was the lone sober one, designating herself that so the happy couple could celebrate without worry. “Whoa there. Where are _you_ going?”

“For a walk with my husband.” Beatrice pointed a finger at Wirt. “You!”

He gestured to himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you! On your feet!”

Wirt obeyed, joining Beatrice and wrapping his arm around her waist to not only show affection, but also as a means of steadying himself. The cemetery appeared to be spinning. They began to move away from the group, but Sara shot in front of them, blocking their path. She didn’t think going off alone was in their best interest and voiced her concern. “You might get yourselves into trouble underage drinking, public intoxication. You need to stay near me where I can babysit.”

“We’re fine.” Beatrice waved her off, and then burped loudly.

Everyone laughed, except Sara. “Okay, well, I guess I didn’t realize bailing you out of jail was one of my maid of honor duties.”

She was being passive aggressive, but in her drunk state Beatrice didn’t catch on. “Good. Thank you,” she told Sara, and moved past her. Wirt briefly thought about going back to apologize, but Beatrice’s grip on him was tight.

“So why the privacy?” Wirt finally asked when they had moved away enough where they could still see their friends, but not hear them. “Are you mad at me?”

Beatrice shook her head, taking a seat on the cold earth next to a random grave. She tugged on Wirt’s hand until he fell down at her side. “I’m not mad. Just wish you would stop asking what Marty gave me. It’s personal and not for everyone else to hear.”

“Why?” Wirt struggled to think what Marty could have given her that held meaning. Maybe if he wasn’t so lost in a haze of alcohol it would have been obvious. Noting her apprehension to answer, Wirt reached out to run his fingers through her hair, causing the flower from the wedding to fall. He picked it up and handed the daisy back to Beatrice. “You can tell me,” he reassured her.

“Marty found my grandparents,” she confessed at last, cradling the flower in the palm of her hand. “He said it was my wedding present. I honestly don’t know what to do. What _can_ I do with this information?”

They fell into silence after her admittance, and Wirt became lost in his thoughts. “Do you ever wonder if everything that happened, happened to bring us together?” he asked after a while. “That we were always meant to be?”

“Wirt,” she said his name like a reprimand. “Not now. This isn’t _deep drunk thoughts with Wirt_. I’m having a crisis if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed. I always notice everything about you!” he replied a bit too dramatically, and when Beatrice chuckled, he reeled in his drunken earnestness. “No, but, uh, hear me out. I have a point.”

Beatrice stared at him with a morose expression. “Fine. What is it?” she gave in.

Wirt cleared his throat. “The wall. It’s not exactly as if anyone can go over, right? The town only knows about your mom’s story. If it happened all the time then we’d know about others. There would be more legends of other kids going missing. But it worked for just your mom, and kept her on that side, forcing her into a life over there … to have you. Then so many years later, I stumble over with Greg. It lets you and me go back and forth, enabling our relationship … but why? Why only for us? Maybe and I don’t think I’m being presumptuous when I say this, but it had to be because it was always about us. You and me. We’re a fantasy novel cliché … we have some greater destiny to fulfill. We were always meant to meet each other and fall in love. Your mom was just an unfortunate pawn in our story, and I think it’s our job to put right what happened to her.”

Beatrice stared at him, looking dumbfounded. It took her a while to respond, but eventually she did. “Wow, you came up with all that? I thought you were drunk.”

“Oh I am, but it’s a theory I’ve been entertaining for some time.”

“So what do we do?”

Wirt leaned into Beatrice, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We accomplish what destiny is pushing us towards whatever that is. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But we can start by meeting your grandparents. At least then you can tell your mom about them. Let’s give her some form of closure for her part in the story of you and me.”

Beatrice nodded, but sighed in dismay. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Not easy. It never is for us. But together we can make even complicated things work. We have for three years, and I don’t see why that won’t continue. If anything, it’ll only get easier the more we become one person … or I uh, meant two people, but married, so like one person. A married one person.” Wirt hiccuped.

Beatrice giggled. “You’re cute when you’re drunk.”

“Thanks.” Wirt smiled and they shared a short kiss.

“We better get back with the group before Sara has a panic attack, wondering where we are,” Beatrice said and then stood, more sure footed than the last time.

“Yeah,” Wirt agreed. She helped him to his feet and together they began walking in the direction of their friends.

But more importantly, towards their future together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit to my original note marking 'The Decisions that Define Us' as the end of the IYLPP Universe (because obviously it doesn't apply anymore): 
> 
> I have since written several other short stories set in between the timeline of the original three fics and as of December 2017 began working on a fic set after TDTDU.
> 
> Thanks for reading and hopefully you'll check out some of my other stories.


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